


Cry 'Havoc': All Honorable Men

by Tea-Diva (Revenant)



Series: Cry 'Havoc' series [1]
Category: Generation Kill, The Bourne Identity (2002)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adaptation, Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Angst, Assassins & Hitmen, BAMF Nate, Bourne Identity - Freeform, Car Chases, Competency, Drama, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Slow Build, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 15:35:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revenant/pseuds/Tea-Diva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Paris, France, Nate Fick is called back into work at four a.m and informed the outpost is on high-alert. In Langley, Virginia, Joe Dowdy's morning, which had been looking promising, does a complete 180'. Sixty miles off the coast of Marseilles, Jean-Paul Lefebvre pulls three bullets and one mystery out of the body of a stranger. Each of these events in these different locations has a single cause, but Brad Colbert doesn't know that. Yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This story is a work of fiction based on the fictionalized characters from the HBO miniseries _Generation Kill_. I do not own the characters or the series, or the book that inspired it; nor am I profiting from this in any way. I intend no disrespect to the real men on whom the book was based.
> 
> Read @ [LiveJournal](http://tea-diva.livejournal.com/7634.html)  
> 

Nate's not breathing heavy when he reaches the door even though he jogged most of the two klicks between his apartment and the office. There's a constriction in his chest that makes it feel like he's short of breath though; adrenaline he diagnoses absently, twisting his key in the lock. He inhales slow for three counts and breathes out again, and then repeats until he feels steady. 

'It could be nothing,' he thinks, but he's not that naïve. 'I'm ready,' he tells himself instead. 'Whatever it is'

At least the adrenaline, more potent than a cup of coffee, has chased away any trace of exhaustion. He's wide-awake and alert despite the hour, to the task definitely, whatever the task might be, and he takes the stairs two at a time, unwinding his scarf as he navigates to the end of the hall. This second door requires a different key but when Nate tests the door it's unlocked.

'Idiot', he thinks and he locks the door behind him, stuffing his into his pocket as he scans the office.

Craig Schwetje's seated in his wheeled office chair, feet propped on his desk and chair tilted back. He's eating an apple, smacking his lips as he chews. The only light in the office is coming from the lamp on Schwetje's desk.

"Sir," Nate says with a sharp nod. "What's with the four a.m. wake-up call?"

"What?" Craig asks around a mouthful. 

When he speaks he launches bits of apple. Nate's eyes track the journey as the flecks of fruit arch through the air and land on the man's polished black desk. For a moment he stares at them, the tiny flecks shining, their paleness in contrast to the desk. 

The phone call that woke him twenty minutes ago came directly from HQ, a bland anonymous voice ordering him back to the outpost ASAP. The tone may have been impassive but the order wasn't. Something's going on, something big enough to warrant dragging Nate back in when he only just clocked out, and here's his superior officer, kicked back and snacking like Langley didn't tell them to haul back in. 

Nate takes a moment to collect himself, sorting through the things he'd dearly like to say to the man in front of him and then he edits the profanity and anything that would make his own mother cringe. He cuts-out words with more syllables than he can be confident Craig will understand and revises what would be inappropriate to say to a superior officer. Having finished that, Nate goes through it all again, removing anything that he's not confident he can say in a modulated and reasonable tone.

He's left with, "Sir." Nate clears his throat, shifting his stance restlessly. "Is there a particular reason I was called back to the office? I just left two hours ago."

Craig shrugs, swallows his mouthful and diverts his attention to the pale innards of his apple framed by bright green skin. Idly, he tips the apple left and then right, his fingers lengthening and curling with the movement. "I know. I'm exhausted." 

"It's almost worse, you know?" Craig continues, stifling a yawn with limited success. "When you get a few solid hours of shut-eye and then have to get up again." 

Nate's functioning on thirty-six hours no-sleep. He clocked out two hours ago, made it home, showered and barely climbed into bed before he was called back in. A few hours of shut-eye can go a long way, but he offers a tight smile and nod. He waits.

Abruptly, Craig points at him, apple clutched between his fingers like he's only just remembered and says, "HQ issued a warning order. All outposts are on alert. All personnel have been ordered to report to their positions."

All personnel? Nate wonders. What the fuck? 

There's no further information, however, and Nate's left standing, head reeling with possibilities, the wet biting crunch of Craig eating his apple resonating in his ears. "Is that all?"

"Oh!" Craig's words lisp around the chunk of fruit in his mouth. "HQ lost an asset."

"An asset?" Nate echoes. He wonders if it's the exhaustion or if the floor really has given way beneath his feet, sending the world pitching and tilting, but Jesus. Jesus _Christ_. They'd lost and asset and that wasn't the _first_ fucking thing that Craig mentioned? "Who?"

Frowning, Craig kicks his feet off the desk, apple wedged solidly between his teeth as he rifles through the papers on his desk. He picks one from the middle of a stack and skims it over. "Uh," he says. "Paris."

Nate blinks. Blinks again. "Paris, sir?"

"Yee-ah," Craig says, meeting Nate's eye as he draws out out the word.

There's a restlessness building inside Nate. He's furious with this slow-drip of information, furious at this lack of action. He wants to reach out and flip Schwetje's desk and then storm out of the office. He wants to do _something_. Instead he shifts restlessly again, tightens his hands into fists and then lets them go. "Sir," he says. "We're in Paris."

Craig blinks at him, his expression clearly reading, 'I don't follow.' 

"You mean, _we_ lost _our_ asset."

Craig shrugs. Fucking shrugs.

"Sir." Nate takes a step forward, just one, and then forces himself to stand still, not trusting movement, certain that letting go of his control even just a fraction will lead to nothing good. "Has there been any word on the asset? Do we know if he's KIA?"

"Unconfirmed at this time."

"Do we know where the asset was situated at the time of last contact?"

"Nate," Craig chides, a companionable smile on his lips. Nate wants to smack the condescending grin from the man's face. Craig raises his hands and it looks very much like he's saying 'it's not my problem'. What the man actually says is, "We don't have much to go on. You know how it is with these guys. You know how they work."

"I have his mission brief and the logs. Does Langley want—"

"Langley wants us to report in, and to hold the fort until we get further orders," Craig interrupts. "Get some rest, Nate."

"Get some rest?" 

"Sure." Craig grins. "You're on what, now? Fourteen hours no-sleep? Take the couch, I'll keep track of the phones if HQ needs us."

Thirty-six, Nate almost corrects. Thirty-six hours no-sleep, and now their asset's missing. Presumed dead? Injured? Rogue? They don't know. He stares at Craig who's rifling through the papers on his desk, apparently having forgotten that anyone else is in the office.

Nate walks away, bypassing the beaten leather couch budged up beneath the window. He drops onto his desk chair and breathes. Then he boots up his computer.

___________________________________________________________________

Joe Dowdy's day starts out just fine, thank-you; comfortable in its routine. He'd woken precisely two minutes before his alarm, there'd been no traffic on his way into work, and when he'd walked through to his office everyone had already been busy, tapping away at their computers. In his experience this meant there aren't any pressing issues requiring prompt un-fucking, which is just fine by him.

Flipping open the top of his coffee maker he peers inside to check that he'd remembered to set a clean filter when he'd emptied it out the other day. He had. He never forgot to in all his seventeen years of working in this office but he double-checks just the same. Carefully, he measures out two tablespoons of fresh-smelling Brazilian roast and sets the thing to brew before settling into his chair, rubbing at his eyes and taking a moment before he really starts his day.

There's a hurried double-tap on the glass of his door and he curses the fact that he hasn't yet opened the blinds so he can't see who's brazen enough to disrupt his routine like this. He doesn't even have a chance to beckon the person inside because just as he's opening his mouth the door's pushed open and Stephen Lovell pops his head in, his expression enough to tell Joe everything he needs to know and doesn't want to hear.

"Sir, it's confirmed," Lovell tells him. "Mission failed."

"Shit," Joe mutters, casting a desperate glance to his coffee pot: still brewing. "What's the status on the asset?"

"We don't know, sir."

There's a shit-storm brewing and within the hour, if he's lucky and gets even that much time, Mattis will be dancing around his doorway demanding information Joe doesn't have. It's unacceptable. Especially before he's managed to have his morning coffee.

He rubs a hand over his face and tries to think. "Our assets don't fail missions. That's not what we trained them for. It's not what we pay them for. So what the hell happened?"

"We don't know, sir."

A myriad of possibilities flip through Joe's head in quick succession. There's a chance that this is part of a plot, the first step in a large-scale assault on their operations. True, given the lairs of clearance, red tape and secrecy it's a very remote possibility but not one he can dismiss out of hand. He believes in preparing for the worst and being pleasantly surprised. To his knowledge, nothing bad ever happened from anticipating disaster. 

But being unprepared when disaster hits? 

The coffee pot gurgles, spills a final spurt of coffee into the awaiting pot and then chirrups happily. Joe slams his fist onto the table. "This is fucking Langley," he snaps. "We are the goddamned CIA. If you have none, then go out and find me some fucking intelligence!"

___________________________________________________________________

It's not that he's seasick. The storm isn't enough to cause any of the experienced fishermen on the boat concern. Those not up on deck are in the mess playing cards, he can hear the low rumble of their laughter in between the roars of the waves.

He's not seasick. It's just that the boat's pitching dramatically and Jean-Paul Lefebvre is not the sort of man who finds that soothing. Certainly not when he can hear the thrum of thunder across the water, or the groan of the ship as it heaves. Storms, in his experience, even the ones that the other men dismiss so casually, always sound far worse when you're rocking in a boat out at sea. Two years and he still isn't used to it.

Maybe cards would distract him but he thinks not. Especially when his crewmates find his skittishness amusing. So instead he's settled on his bunk, back resting against his folded pillow, knees bent to prop his book, trying to lose himself in a cheap paperback.

He'd tried to suggest once that perhaps calling a retired medic of the Armée de Terre Infanterie division ‘un froussard’ was unfair. It's not that he's a coward so much as that he, unlike the others, hadn't grown up on the sea. Quite the contrary, until two years ago he has always kept his feet firmly on dry land. When this argument failed he'd told them that he was not above abusing his unofficial position as the boat's doctor and let the men suffer the after-effects of too many evening drinks without the aid of pain relievers. It had only done so much to quell the teasing admittedly, but it feels more companionable now at least.

"We're dealing a new game," Anton says, sticking his head through the opened door. "Come and join us."

"I'm reading."

"Irritable old man," Anton grumbles, loud enough for Jean-Paul to hear.

He glares at Anton's retreating back both of them knowing full well that Anton is seven years Jean-Paul's senior. He contemplates shouting something in the man's wake but is distracted by the sound of rushing feet on the deck above. 

Moment's later the hurried footsteps grow louder and Anton is back, standing in the frame of the door. "Put the book away. Serge has spotted something in the water."

Hastily, Jean-Paul removes his glasses, placing them and his book aside as he reaches for his rain-gear before following Anton up the narrow stairs. By the time they arrive on the main deck the men have already hauled something aboard.

Even in the dark with his vision impaired by slanting rain Jean-Paul can tell that it's a man. Tall, with a shock of pale hair that's revealed when Serge shifts his hold on the stranger and accidentally pushes the hood of the man's wet suit down.

Jean-Paul glances out to the writhing waves and sees no sign of a boat or dinghy, and yet the man's dressed like he was scuba diving. "He's dead," one of the men mutters, blessing himself. 

They stare at Jean-Paul with wide eyes and he crouches by the stranger's side, pressing two fingers against the cold skin and there, weak but steady, a pulse. "No. He's alive," Jean-Paul tells them. "Hurry, bring him below."

The little wooden table in the mess room is hastily converted for surgery though it's barely big enough to hold the unconscious stranger. Once they've settled their burden onto it the other men are quick to clear the room and Jean-Paul finds himself alone with the stranger.

He sets to work immediately, cutting away the wet suit, peeling it down to rest at the man's hips so he can assess his patient.

There are three bullet wounds mere inches away from the man's spine, just beneath the right shoulder. No sign of any exit wounds. A colourful tattoo spans a significant portion of the man's back, a myriad of images blended together that Jean-Paul doesn't pause to interpret beyond noting that it's unmarred by injury.

There's a scar on the man's upper left shoulder: small and circular, and another bisecting the man's chest above the heart: a long stripe. He pays little attention to these as both are pale and long-since healed. The scar on the man's hip, however, is an entirely different matter. It's thick and jagged and when Jean-Paul presses a finger to it something moves beneath the skin.

There's no indication of head trauma. No other injuries save for the bullet wounds, and the blood from those is sluggish at best. Carefully, he puts his knowledge to use extracting the bullets. He cleans the wounds and covers them and when he's finished the stranger shows no sign of being any closer to waking, but his breath is steady and heartbeat solid.

Jean-Paul finds himself considering the man. It's clear he's no tourist. Jean-Paul knows the boats that make use of these waters and none of the tour guides who take out divers would be careless enough to forget a passenger. It's possible the man had a private vessel but there'd been no sign of a boat nearby, which means he likely fell off a moving boat that had carried on without him. That, in conjunction with the bullets, makes Jean-Paul wonder if perhaps the stranger had been part of a drug deal, or some other nefarious business that had taken a turn.

There's no possibility of a gun concealed in the wet suit but Jean-Paul checks all the same. Also not present on the man's person is any indication of his identity. His brief search brings him back to the lump beneath the stranger's skin.

There's nothing, as far as he knows, that has any business being there. Was it perhaps another bullet from a previous injury that was never removed? He checks again and the shape seems about right. It doesn't feel as if the mass, whatever it might be, is situated deep in the tissue. Probably it would be a simple thing to remove. 

He should ask for the stranger's permission. The injury's older, the scar healed over and the danger, if there is any, isn't pressing. Still, whatever's hiding beneath the skin is clearly foreign, could not possibly serve any useful purpose and may possibly be causing harm. Better the man be unconscious for the surgery. Better to remove what it is before the man wakes. 

Retrieving his scalpel, Jean-Paul goes back to work.

He cuts through the skin along the same line that it had apparently been cut before, and from the man's body Jean-Paul extracts a metal thing -- like a bullet but not. Rinsing off the gore Jean-Paul is no more able to determine its purpose than when it was just a lump beneath flesh. It's much too large for a bullet and not quite the correct shape, the nose blunted. An implant of some sort possibly, but for what purpose?

Then he notices the table. 

The stranger has vanished.

Barely a moment later, before he has the chance to process what he's seeing (or not seeing), a body slams into him, propels him backward until he's shoved unceremoniously, face-first against the wall. Pins him there. "Who are you?" the stranger growls. "What do you want?" 

"I'm a friend!" Jean-Paul gasps. "I'm trying to help!"

"What?"

"Don't hurt me," he hastens to add. Can think of nothing else to say but, "I'm trying to help!"

The weight against his back eases away and after a moment Jean-Paul risks turning. The stranger watches his movements closely. Like a cornered animal Jean-Paul thinks, and somehow feels slightly less afraid. The man is simply frightened.

"Where am I?"

"On a boat. A fishing boat, sixty miles off the coast of Marseilles, I think. Or close enough." Holding up the strange metal thing, Jean-Paul asks, "What is this? Why was it in your hip?"

"What—my hip?" the man stares first at Jean-Paul and then the metal thing, and then his attention skitters away to take-in the room, the doorway.

"This thing," Jean-Paul insists, recalling the man's attention. "It was in your hip. Who are you?"

A frown pinches the stranger's brows together as his focus turns inward. "I don't – I don't know." He blinks wide, startled blue eyes like he's not sure that can even be possible. How can he not know? his expression asks.

Maybe there had been head trauma after all, even if Jean-Paul had found no indication. "You are French," he tells the man, trying to comfort. 

"I am?"

"You are speaking French," Jean-Paul points out. "Very well. Like a Frenchman." But the man stares back with his ice-blue eyes, still lost, still unsure. "What were you doing in the water? Do you remember?"

The man tips his head to the side, his gaze drawn to the porthole and the dark surging blueness beyond. "No."

"You don't know who you are?"

"No," the stranger snarls. "I don't know!" He winces, his hands raised to his head with a groan. "Hurts."

All at once he begins to fall, like his strings have been cut. Jean-Paul lurches forward to catch the man's weight and, with some difficulty, manages to wrangle him back onto the table. The man is once again unconscious but his vitals, as far as Jean-Paul can assess, are still good.

"He okay?" Captain Gerard asks, pausing in the doorway some time later. The stranger hasn't woken again though Jean-Paul waits, not taking his eyes away just in case.

"Three bullets, but I cleaned them up. The cold water staunched the blood flow it seems. He should recover."

Gerard nods, not commenting on the fact that this stranger had been shot. "Who is he?"

Helplessly, Jean-Paul shrugs. "He has amnesia, I think. I have no idea who he is."


	2. Chapter 2

He was born at night in the deep of the ocean, in the middle of a rainstorm; rough waves rocking him, back and forth, hissing a rushing, lilting lullaby. 

By all accounts he should have died because when he was born it was with three bullets lodged in his back, sprayed in a tight constellation that through some miracle managed to miss both bone and major organs. 

He was born lucky. 

The cold water staunched the blood loss, the suit he was wearing kept him just shy of hypothermia, and the little flashing safety light drew the attention of a fisherman aboard a passing boat. 

That was two weeks, one day, and four and a half hours ago. He is not even a month old. He still has no name. 

Sometimes he looks in the mirror at his reflection, searches for answers in the cool blueness of his eyes. Finds none. 

He asks himself, ‘who are you?’ asks, ‘where did you come from?’ but even though he repeats the question in French, in English, in German, in Russian, he never gets an answer. 

Each language spills off his tongue like he was born to speak it. He thinks he knows about eight languages in all but he’s not sure. Five days ago he thought he knew only seven but then he'd come across Jean-Paul reading a book in Arabic and had known the title. When Jean-Paul handed it over he'd skimmed through the pages expecting to stutter over a word or phrase. By the time he had reached the third chapter Jean-Paul had smiled, “It’s coming back, no?” But it wasn’t.

It took barely seven hours of being awake and on the boat for him to realize that possibly the most demoralizing, the most frustrating, the most irritating question in the possible vastness of the universe was, _“It’s coming back?”_

Jean-Paul meant it to be quietly encouraging, the question standing-in for any number of other things ranging from, ‘You see, you’re not useless’ like when he'd been worrying about not being able to contribute on the boat and then found himself tying knots worthy of any sailor in a piece of rope he'd been fiddling with. It also extended to how the soft-spoken doctor usually meant the words: ‘It will be okay’.

Except that it wouldn’t because he's barely a month old and already fully-grown. He is six foot four inches, one hundred eighty-seven pounds of bone and muscle, and the only clue as to who he is lies in an inch of bullet-shaped metal that Jean-Paul pulled from beneath the skin of his hip. The only secret the casing has to reveal is a flickering red light that, when pointed at a flat surface, reads the name and account of a bank: 000-7-17-12-0-14-26 Gemeinschaft Bank Zurich, Switzerland.

He has it memorized. It is the one thing about himself that he knows.

When he's not helping around the boat or lobbing futile questions at his own reflection in various languages he sometimes makes up histories for himself. 

When he'd discovered the account information he'd wondered if he were a reckless C.E.O of a major corporation somewhere who'd gotten drunk on a boat and survived an attempt at a hostile takeover of his company. Clearly he was prone to bad behavior; otherwise he wouldn’t have needed to have the account of his own damned bank stitched into his body in order to be confident he would remember where he kept his money.

“You will be alright,” Jean-Paul assures him as their port begins to take shape in the grey mist, the lurching wail of the gulls getting louder as they draw nearer to land. “You will go to Zurich. You will find answers.”

“I have nothing,” he says, feeling the press of all the things that he lacks, heavier now that he sees the structure of the city ahead of him. He is not like those people bustling along the street in the distance; he's a silhouette of a person, incomplete. “I don’t even have a name.”

The men on the boat had done their best, gathered a pair of heavy work boots that are too big, and blue jeans that are too loose, a long-sleeved shirt that's tight across the shoulders and a sweater that's threadbare. They offered up names to him as well, like a sort of game, waiting for him to recognize one. It never happened. 

Outside of the makeshift game the men played they never seemed to use names very much. He's still not certain if that was out of deference to him or because, after a certain amount of time spent in a confined space with the same people, names became irrelevant.

Jean-Paul pulls a fold of bills from his pocket. The money is held together by a rubber band. “You will be alright,” the man repeats. “This should get you to Switzerland.”

___________________________________________________________________

When Joe Dowdy receives the call he's sitting in his office, the bubbling, hissing stutter of his percolating coffee offering a mellow soundtrack for the chaos happening just outside his door. There are stacks of files on his desk but his attention is on his computer screen where he's reading through intel sent over from their Paris outpost. 

He’s been expecting the call but not looking forward to it. There's a moment, brief though it might be, where he wishes he could simply say: ‘do you want to talk about this or do you want me to fix it, because I only have so much time to get ahead of this shitstorm.’

The truth is, the phone call is part of the shitstorm.

Joe pushes away from his desk and exits his office. Most of his staff has been temporarily relocated down the hall to a conference room where they've set up a station devoted to gathering as much intelligence on their missing asset as possible. It’s where Joe's been spending most of his time, but that’s not where he's heading.

“Sir,” Steven Lovell says, intercepting him as he cuts through the office and out to the hall. “Mattis was …”

Joe waves a hand. “I know.” 

He appreciates that Lovell doesn’t need him to say anything further. The other man is sensible enough to stop shadowing his footsteps and get back to work. Lovell at least knows where he's needed and has the luxury of being there.

“Sir,” Joe greets. A quick glance confirming that the conference room is empty except for James Mattis, CIA Deputy Director and supervisor for the department of which Joe is head. 

For his part, Mattis looks strangely placid. It's more disturbing than when Joe's forced to endure a rant, concerned all the while that the pressure will build in the man’s head to such an extent that it might blow clean off his shoulders. Mattis likes to shout and rant and drive people toward action. Joe has no idea what to do with this cool, static version of the man.

“Joe,” Mattis greets, and the casual use of his first name is all the indication Joe needs of just what kind of meeting he's walked into. It means: ‘cut-the-bullshit’. It means: ‘off-the-record’. 

He nods his head, a quick jerk down and then up, and settles into a seat.

Mattis leans forward, his arms resting on the tabletop as he interlaces his fingers. His eyes narrow. “I want to talk to you about Nykwana Wombosi.” 

Outwardly, Joe remains still, unblinking. A lesser man might have flinched, reacted, given the game away. Mattis is staring at him, searching for a tell because at this stage in the game a reaction is as good as a confession. Joe didn't make it all the way to deputy director because he makes rooky mistakes. 

If there's one thing he knows about surviving in this particular branch of the CIA it's that it helps to employ everything he learned from his time in the Corps, which would be about the same things you’d learn if you were raised by wolves.

“I know you’ve heard the name,” Mattis continues. “He’s currently running a shakedown of this organization. Threatening to expose details of the agency’s actions if we don’t put him back in power. I don’t think I need to tell you that we have no damned intention of doing that.”

This is old information and Mattis knows it. They've been here before. Joe's waiting for his supervisor to get to what this meeting is really about, because it's not Wombosi, not only about him at least. His line of work, Joe’s noticed, is like one long game of chess where at any given moment your opponent can declare ‘check mate’ and sweep all your pieces off the board.

“He’s talking to any news station that holds a mike in front of his face,” Mattis continues. “Saying he’s survived an assassination attempt perpetrated by, he claims, the CIA.”

James Mattis’ idea of an intense stare seems to involve widening his eyes so the whites are visible, Joe notes absently. He waits for a beat, wondering if it's his turn to talk but Mattis barrels on, “I want to know if this crap has to do with Treadstone. Did you authorize a goddamned kill order on Nykwana Wombosi?”

It's not altogether surprising that this is what Mattis is concerned about, not under the circumstances. What is surprising is that they're sitting here, face-to-face. What's surprising is the phrasing of this question. Joe hesitates. “Are you asking me a direct question?”

Mattis slams his palm down on the tabletop as he snarls, “You’re damned right I am.”

“Sir, with respect. You said you were never going to do that.” 

Mattis’ mouth thins into a narrow, bloodless slash and he keeps staring. After a beat, Joe sighs and gives-in. “We lost communication with the asset.”

“That was two fucking weeks ago, Joe.”

It’s part of the process, Joe knows. Right from the moment Mattis had sat him down and all but explicitly said that he wanted Treadstone to take care of Wombosi. If it had gone like it was supposed to then the success of the mission and any accolades would have been attributed to Mattis. Now that things have gone to hell the blame is all on Joe. This is about damage control.

Joe has an asset out there somewhere, maybe dead but possibly alive. Maybe he’s gone rogue, maybe he’s gone crazy, and maybe he’s been taken hostage. What Joe needs to do is get everyone focused on what little solid intel they have and start moving, working on contingencies, trying to bring in their man. 

Two weeks ago Mattis hadn’t cared what Treadstone was up to. Better for him if he didn’t know. Now, he’s coming down on them hard because there are ramifications not for the world, or their agent, or the organization, but for the Deputy Director personally.

Mattis narrows his eyes and leans forward. “This is un-fucking-acceptable. A mission goes south _two weeks ago_ and you’re still standing with your dick in your hand? Do you have any god damned leads?” 

“I’ve got every available agent working on it,” Joe promises. “Round the clock. We’re not even sleeping. I can assure you this is top priority, and we will get it sorted.”

“You’re damned right you will. I want it sorted ASAP, as in right the fuck now, as in fucking _yesterday_ .”

“Sir.” Joe nods sharply but James Mattis is already storming out of the conference room. 

Whatever Mattis might think, Joe hasn’t been sitting around for two weeks picking his nose or doodling in a notebook. Their asset had a proposed window in which to complete the assignment, and when that window closed Joe had about a million possibilities as to why the assignment was incomplete. 

He has about the same number of options on how to proceed, and seeing as there is no lead, Joe's been pursuing every one of those possibilities in order to eliminate as many as he can.

So far there's been no trace of their asset. Joe hopes that they can find him and bring him in, resolve the whole situation and restore the status quo as quickly as possible. As the head of Treadstone, however, Joe can’t help thinking that the easiest solution here would be if the reason their asset has disappeared is because he’s dead.

___________________________________________________________________

He learns he speaks not only High German but also the particular dialect of German favored in Switzerland while sitting in a park in Zurich. 

The bank had been closed by the time his train had pulled in, and what little money he had left after the cost of the ticket and food wasn’t enough to cover a room for the night. There hadn’t been too much time to pass before the bank opened again in the morning and it seemed best to stay in the area. 

Two polizei catch him sleeping on a bench in a park near the bank and tell him to move along. They ask for his papers and he tells them that they are lost. The words are out of his mouth before he even thinks of what he intends to say.

It occurs to him that the lie comes to his lips faster than the truth, but by the time he wonders why that is he's distracted by the ease with which he has rendered both polizei unconscious on the ground. 

It took him two moves, swift and unthinking. He didn’t even have to shift his feet.

He stands there for a moment, gazing at them where they lie in the snow. There’s no blood, he knows he didn’t kill them. They’re knocked out, that’s all. No permanent damage. What the hell did he just do? 

The reaction was instinctive. One of them had shoved him roughly with his baton and he’d disarmed him. Only not just disarmed him. He’d incapacitated both men.

That’s a normal reaction to stress. He’s been shot; obviously there was some sort of trauma even if he can’t remember any of it. So unconsciously he must still be fighting to defend himself. The cop had shoved him and he’d reacted.

He just assaulted two police officers; that is not a normal stress reaction.

Two moves. Fast. He hadn’t needed to extend his arm all the way. He’s not even breathing hard. He’s standing there looking at the men, thinking confidently that they will be unconscious for five hours. He's cataloguing the possible injuries they may suffer, how that might affect the time it takes them to wake, and their ability to pursue him when they do.

Maybe he's a doctor. 

Maybe he's a doctor who took a lot of self-defense classes.

He hurries through the park away from the bench and the bodies on the ground. When he steps out onto the sidewalk and is once again standing under the bright street lamps he lets out a slow breath but keeps moving, cutting a steady path through the streets. 

What’s left of the money Jean-Paul gave him is in his pocket. There’s enough to sit in a little coffee shop and warm his hands around a cup of coffee. There's a soft snow falling, it's the kind of cold that sinks down deep under the skin and makes a home out of your bones. He can’t feel the chill anymore and he’s pretty sure that’s not a good sign.

Figuring out how he likes his coffee has become a sort of obsession. On the boat, Captain Gerard had insisted that everyone liked it, but what constituted coffee among the crew was a thick, darkly black sludge like the cup had been filled with water from an oil slick. In Marseilles he'd tried a latte, and he’d had a cappuccino on the train. He finished neither. He's starting to suspect that he doesn't like coffee at all but he keeps trying, eager for that bit of normalcy.

This time he asks for plain coffee. The barista nods her head to the right, “Milk and sugar are over there.” 

He glances at the little counter against the far window where a man in a dark grey suit and a red tie is stirring a packet of sugar into his biodegradable cup. “Is there something else I can do for you?” the girl behind the counter asks. She smiles brightly.

“No,” he tells her, blinks. “Thank-you.” 

He stands beside the man in the red tie and observes the various things set out. There are white plastic lids for the paper travel cups and brown plastic sticks for stirring. There are three cartons: milk, cream, and soy. The cartons sit inside a metal refrigerator that's just big enough for the offered selection. The door to the little fridge is glass. Inside, a light illuminates the beverages and does not turn off.

“I come to this place always because they have the soy,” the man in the red tie says. “Can’t handle milk at all, but can’t take my coffee without a little something. You?”

“Yes,” he tells the man. He wishes that he were invisible, that people would stop talking to him because he feels as if he doesn’t actually exist and when they speak to him so openly it reminds him that he does exist but somehow, no one is looking for him.

The man smiles brightly and passes the soy milk over when he's done and then stands there grinning. Across the street two polizei are walking passed the bank and he watches them, waits to see where they will go. 

“Got some banking to do?” the man with the red tie asks, following his gaze.

“Hm.” He takes the soy container, pouring it into his coffee as he observes the polizei passing out of view. Apparently they are merely walking their beat. The dark black of his coffee has turned to creamy beige when he glances down. Carefully, he recaps the soy carton before returning it to the fridge. 

“Have a good day!” the man says.

“Thank you,” he returns, and then remembers to offer, “You as well.” 

The coffee is barely warm when he takes a sip. There's the distinct taste of beans, and not coffee beans, either. He winces as he swallows and doesn’t finish it.

At nine o’clock he leaves the coffee shop and crosses the street to Gemeinschaft Bank. The bank is housed in a large stone building with enormous windows that glow with the lighting from inside. Amidst the dark grey of the early morning the bank looks warm and inviting.

He's still wearing the ratty orange sweater and too large pants. The boots are loose around his feet and he smells like fish. When he steps through the front entrance he feels momentarily as if he should turn around and walk back out. Everyone is dressed in crisp dark suits. The women have their hair held back in smooth buns; the men’s polished shoes click across the marble as loudly as the women’s high heels do.

There's a large marble staircase swooping off to the right and a tall reception desk of dark polished mahogany. Behind the desk, a woman with a thinly slashed mouth purses her lips at him. The lipstick she's wearing is too dark for her pale complexion; it makes her look pinched and irritable.

“Can I help you?” she asks, like she doesn’t think she can. Like she thinks he’s lost and she needs to give him directions. Possibly to a homeless shelter.

“Yes,” he says, and his voice doesn't falter because he's been rehearsing this moment in his head ever since he discovered the name of this place and the number of his account back on the boat. “I am here about a numbered account.”

He can tell it's a prestigious bank because he's certain that any lesser receptionist at any lesser establishment would look dubiously at his clothes and sneer. She simply slides a pad of paper towards him. Her nails are painted the same shade as her lipstick. “Enter the account number here and someone will be along to direct you.”

There's a fancy fountain pen sitting on the counter, which he uncaps, scrawling the numbers he has memorized across the paper before pushing the pad back to her. He watches as she picks it up, glancing briefly over the page before holding it up over her left shoulder, offering it to one of the men standing behind her. The man takes the whole pad and promptly disappears through a door to the left of the desk.

“This way please,” the same man says a moment later, returning without the pad and a brighter smile. 

‘This man knows who I am,’ he realizes.

There's a stretch of dark tinted glass behind the receptionist’s desk and the man opens a door through it, holds it open to usher him through. Beyond is a wide hallway with oak paneling. “Here,” the man says, pressing a button. One of the panels slides aside to reveal an elevator. Everything in the paneled room is silent. It feels oddly deafening.

The elevator ride is short and he is by himself. There is no music playing, there are no sounds at all. He steps out into another marble room, this one black and white. There's a large safe on the opposite side from the elevator behind a row of three-inch thick metal bars; the door to the safe is round and guarded by five men, each with a weapon concealed carefully beneath their suit jackets.

“Hand print, please,” a man says, gesturing to a small podium just to the right of the elevator. 

Briefly, he wonders if he can ask someone here what his name is. With all this security surely someone must know. The scanner that reads his handprint makes a happy chirrup and lights up bright green when he presses his hand against it. The man smiles and nods his head to a little booth behind him. “Your box will be brought in shortly.”

“Thank you.” 

He does not sit, though there's a chair inside the little curtained booth. There isn’t much of a wait. He has a moment to wonder what he'll do if there's nothing useful in his safety deposit box and decides that if there is no clue to his name inside the box, no clue as to who he might be, he'll ask for the bank manager. He can explain his situation, surely they'll at least tell him his name. With all the security that he's passed he shouldn’t need to show them his identification papers for them to believe he must be the rightful owner of the deposit box. He’s not asking for money, just a name.

“Here you are,” the same man says as he slides the dark blue curtain aside. He sets a metal box the size of a large briefcase down onto the counter. It is over six inches thick. 

When he's alone, the curtain pulled closed behind him, he turns to the box. The metal locks flip open silently and he pushes back the lid in one swift movement, like pulling off a Band-Aid. 

Inside, there's an American passport sitting next to a plastic case for contact lenses, which gives him pause. He hasn’t had any trouble with his vision and finds the presence of the contacts momentarily more intriguing than the chance to find out his own identity. He doesn't need a prescription, so who do they belong to?

With a steadying breath, he flips open the passport and sees his own face peering back at him: pale hair, lips thinned in a tight line. His name is Brad Colbert; he is from Oceanside California. 

“My name is Brad Colbert,” he murmurs. It doesn’t feel familiar.

Tucked inside the passport are pink-colored papers that tell him he is an American living in France. He reads his address, letting his lips move around the words but not saying them aloud: 104 Rue du Jardin, Paris.

Tucking the passport into his pocket he peers down at the box. Besides the contacts, there's a silver and black Breitling watch, two plane tickets and three credit cards. He feels a momentary rush of relief. Since he woke up in the mess room on board the fishing boat he's felt like a ghost. Now, suddenly, he's wholly and completely real.

His name is Brad Colbert; he lives in Paris. He has papers and money. He will be okay.

The last item in the box is a plastic-wrapped package. Cautiously, Brad unsticks the clear tape that holds the white packaging closed. 

There's another watch, this one simple, sleek and matte black. The time it shows is wrong but when he goes to adjust it there are no dials for him to turn. He peers at it curiously before he realizes that there's a hidden place where the watch can plug into some sort of jack. Brad slips the black watch around his wrist. It's set to Paris time. 

The only other thing in the package is a square blue plastic case that houses a CD. Brad has no way of playing it but he sets it aside with the credit cards and the Breitling. He’s looking at the little collection of personal items that he's amassed when he realizes that there's a second layer to the box.

There isn’t a handle but the top part of the container slips out easily when he pulls. 

The first thing he sees is the money. There's a lot of it. 

Stacks of bills in small denominations and different currencies, grouped together to add to a sizable sum. Beside the money is a row of passports. Brazilian, American, British, Italian. 

He is Brad Colbert but he is also Matthew Kempe, and Luca Bianco, and Emanuel Herrman. He stops flipping through them all. He’s getting a headache. 

It’s his face in all the pictures. None of the addresses are the same. None of the names are repeated.

He drops his hands onto the counter and leans over, lets his eyes fall closed. 

Maybe he’s a jewel thief. Maybe he’s in the fraud business? It’s lucrative, if the stacks of money are anything to go by.

There's a blue sack sitting in the corner, a courtesy for those who wish to empty their deposit box. Brad definitely wants to empty his box. He begins shoving everything into the bag haphazardly and then freezes. 

With half the money out of the way Brad can now see a matte black gun lying at the bottom of the box. Unthinkingly, he picks it up, its weight settling in his hand. 2009 SIG Pro pistol, he thinks. About 1.6 pounds, fifteen shot capacity, semi-automatic.

He pops out the clip and then sets the gun and the clip back inside the box. Everything else he packs into the bag. He locks the box and swings the bag onto his shoulder. 

He’s done here.

“I am trying to think,” he says to the guard as he hands over the now-empty box. “When was I here last?”

“That is difficult,” the man says. “I think it must have been about three weeks ago.”

Brad smiles his thanks and rides the elevator down. He keeps his pace easy but purposeful as he heads to the door and out into the street. His skin itches with a sort of nervous tension. 

Before, he felt like a ghost. Now, abruptly, he feels horribly visible.

Going to the bank was a mistake, he thinks to himself as he checks over his left shoulder. A sea of people behind him, bland-faced, darkly dressed: people on their way into work. He checks the road as he crosses the street.

It wasn’t a mistake, he thinks then. He had no idea who he was; he had no money and no place to go. He went to the bank and now he has money and papers and addresses. He has direction and identity. He is Brad Colbert. He pushes all the other names away; he’ll think about them later.

There are two polizei with black furry hats walking toward him. Brad keeps his eyes focused forward and doesn't increase his pace. When they pass he turns down the next street and picks up his pace.

Why did he do that? He should be heading toward the train station so he can get a ticket to Paris. Instead, he’s trying to lose himself in a bustle of people, feeling as if the world has too many eyes and all of them are focused on him. 

In the reflection of a shop window Brad notices that the two polizei he just passed are following him at a distance. Suddenly he's no longer trying to dismiss the prickle of his skin. It's not paranoia if you really are being followed.

Ahead is a man in a soldier’s uniform standing by a little square sign that reads: American Embassy. 

“I’m an American,” Brad declares, flashing his American passport at the soldier who nods at him briskly, stepping aside so Brad can cross through the door. 

He’s bought himself some time that’s all, the practical side of him whispers. In a few moments the police will explain to the soldier why they're following him. They must know about the two officers he knocked out the other night.

There’s a clock keeping time in his head as he crosses the main floor of the embassy, trying to find a line to stand in where he might blend in. He's too tall not to be visible. The clock in his head is counting down.

___________________________________________________________________

Rain falls, cold and stinging; the sky above is as grey as the streets below and Nate misses the California sunlight, so bright and warm that it made him forget he had any other home.

“You look like a broke-ass student." The man steps out of a taxicab, hopping over the rush of water along the gutter and up onto the sidewalk.

Nate slows his pace, holds his black umbrella up a little higher to offer some shelter to the familiar face. “That’s exactly what I am,” he says. He waits while the man readjusts the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder, and then they fall into step beside each other. “This is a hell of a time to take a vacation, Mike.”

“Vacation is what I told Patterson I was taking,” Mike says. “And you know Bryan, he wasn’t going to give me shit.” 

Nate does indeed know Bryan Patterson. There are days when he wistfully thinks of the warm sunshine of Rome, the enshrouding fold of history, and the utter sanity of the outpost there, so much in contrast to his own here in Paris. 

He catches Mike’s sidelong glance but keeps his eyes focused forward, pretends that he's concentrating on navigating through the crowds. It’s easier than meeting his friend’s eyes and letting the other man read everything that Nate's been trying to push aside.

Mike sighs. “I’m here for _you_ , Nate.”

Nate steers them down the sidewalk in silence. Cutting sharply left when they reach a familiar bright painted blue door, which he opens, nodding at Mike to precede him inside while he closes up his umbrella. 

He takes his time shaking the clinging rain off, collecting his thoughts, but Mike stands just inside the shop, keeping the door braced open and eventually Nate steps inside. The bells above the door jingle happily as the door swings closed. At least the shop isn't busy. There's a couple sharing a table by the window, and an older man sitting alone near the back, the skin of his hands wrinkled as he holds his pristine white cup to his lips to sip.

Nate orders two coffees at the counter and brings them to the corner booth Mike lays claim to. “How are you doing?” Mike asks, while Nate shrugs out of his P-coat and unwraps his scarf from around his neck. Both his coat and his scarf are wet. He drapes them across the booth and hopes they dry quickly.

Sliding onto the smooth vinyl of the bench seat Nate reaches for his cup and assures, “I’ve been doing alright.”

Mike eyes him over his white coffee cup. “I heard you did some traveling yourself.” 

“I’m Paris Bravo,” Nate says, neutral. “I don’t get to sit behind a desk with my feet up.”

“No,” Mike huffs. “Leave that to Craig.” Habit makes Nate frown his disapproval over the comment, but Mike's known him long enough not to be deterred by the silent reprimand. “Did you find anything useful on your trip?”

“It was an assignment,” Nate dismisses. “How long are you planning to be in Paris?”

Mike leans back in his chair. “I don’t have a definitive return date. I’ve certainly saved up enough holiday hours.”

“Your wife liked the idea of you cashing in your holidays on a trip you’re taking without her?” Nate asks, smiling fondly despite himself.

“My _wife_ booked the damned tickets.” Mike takes a sip of his coffee, smirks. “Claire says ‘hi’ by the way.”

“Salut,” Nate replies, raising his mug. He hopes that Mike will be distracted by the segue, will maybe offer an update on his wife, on Patterson and Rome. Apparently, Nate can't catch a fucking break because Mike just regards him steadily, waiting. 

He lets it go until he's downed most of his coffee. “I should be getting back to the office.” Nate sets his cup back into the saucer, reaches out for his scarf. 

“Craig should have things well in hand,” Mike says, clearly in no hurry. 

Nate raises a pointed eyebrow, and Mike's forced to insist, “He’s still claiming to be Paris Alpha, isn’t he?”

Most outposts have an ‘Alpha’ agent and a ‘Bravo’ agent. The idea being that the Alpha, a more experienced agent, liaises with the officials from Langley, bridging the bureaucracy with the realities of the field. 

Bravo agents, like Nate and Mike, gather intelligence for the organization, run basic ops generally oriented around reconnaissance and are also sent into the field if contact with an asset is necessary, or if an asset requires back up on a mission. 

That’s how it’s supposed to function, but Nate’s outpost is an exception. Craig Schwetje mostly forgets what his orders from Langley are unless Nate writes them out on yellow post-its and wallpapers the man’s computer screen. More often than not, when the Operation’s Director calls, he speaks to Nate, and Nate's pretty much in charge of the outpost because Craig rarely has the slightest clue about anything. 

When it comes to paperwork, though, Craig Schwetje is a master. Nate suspects that Craig made the jump to Alpha because of his facility with the bureaucratic aspect of their work. The CIA has two faces: the practical one that likes to get things done quickly and efficiently, and the political one that likes to smile and charm people into forgetting that it's up to its elbows in some pretty shady business. Craig's a political agent, all about towing the line and smiling and being liked by everyone and looking good while he does it. It’s likely he’ll end up as a CIA Deputy Director at some point, smiling at politicians and encouraging them to put money into this program or that one. All talk and little substance.

Nate sighs. “I should get back.”

“The office isn’t gonna burn down without you.” Mike knows better than to drop a hand onto Nate’s arm, but his gaze is strong enough to hold Nate in his seat. “Your friend's just flown in from Italy. Sit a while. What’s your hurry?”

“You know what my hurry is,” Nate snaps. Then winces. 

Of course Mike knows his hurry. Of course Mike knows exactly what to do and say to make Nate expose the fact that he is hurrying. “I’m not talking about this.” 

Mike drops the pretense and leans forward, his voice low and smooth and reassuring as he says, “We don’t know for sure what happened.”

Nate raises his eyebrows. “We know he assaulted two police officers in the middle of a park in Zurich.”

“But we don’t know _why_ ,” Mike points out, sounding so utterly reasonable.

“Come on, Mike," Nate chides. "The way this is going? The amount of _attention_ this is getting. Do you really think the order's going to be to bring him in? Do you really think they care about _why_ ?”

Mike is silent for a moment, and then Mike finishes his coffee in one definitive gulp and then pushes the cup and saucer aside. “What are we going to do?”

“You’re not going to do anything," Nate tells his friend. "You’re on vacation.”

___________________________________________________________________

Brad’s eyes flicker around the main lobby of the American Embassy noting exits, assessing variables, registering the location of the guards and anyone who looks as if they can handle themselves in a fight; anyone who might panic or serve as a distraction.

There's a man leaning against the counter diagonal from Brad who's in the process of emptying the contents of his ratty green messenger bag onto the counter. His voice is slowly rising but hasn't yet reached the volume of a shout. Behind the brass bars one of the cogs in the great bureaucratic machine is pleading for the guy to pause and listen for a moment. 

The man's currently holding the attention of the two guards by the stairs. They stare with cool impassive eyes, waiting for the situation to escalate just that little bit more in order to justify their interference. Despite the man’s lean frame, faded denim jeans and dark hooded sweatshirt Brad's confident that the guy has had some kind of military training. Possibly he’s a Marine, though maybe Army. 

The countdown in his head is approaching single digits. Brad glances toward the front entrance and sees a man in a black suit and black tie conferring with one of the guards, their heads tilted towards one another. Periodically they look in his direction. 

Casually, Brad shifts away from the line he’s been standing in and makes his way toward the side room hoping to loop around to the exit and find his way back onto the street before the guards can mobilize.

“Blue bag!” one of the guards yells when Brad's made it about five steps. “The blue bag, stop right there!” 

Obediently, Brad halts. He raises his hands above his head, acutely aware that everyone in the lobby has paused to watch. The guards by the stairs are closing in on him; the one who shouted is fishing a set of handcuffs from his pocket as he steps closer. 

They stop near him. Too close; that’s their first mistake, the only mistake that matters. 

Brad strikes out with clean precise movements. He knocks the cuffs out of one guard’s hands and then kicks the man's legs out from under him. As the other two guards are reaching for their guns Brad hits out, dropping them into a tidy pile, unconscious. It takes five moves in all and he doesn’t even need to think about it. 

Shouldering his bag he heads to the stairs.

The Embassy's in chaos: people are screaming and panicking and running to follow emergency protocols, ducking into their offices. It's a blur of movement. Brad ignores everyone and in turn, they pay him no mind. 

He keeps his head down and his pace steady, and in his head he's running his options. He can’t get very far without better knowledge of the building, which he doesn’t have. Problem one.

Solution: on the wall up ahead to his left is a rectangular piece of plastic that clearly and distinctly marks all of the exits in case of fire. Brad tears it off the wall without breaking stride and heads out into another stairwell. 

He runs directly into a man wearing a suit scampering down the stairs and talking into an earpiece, which solves problem two: figuring out the location of the enemy. 

Raising his left arm, Brad knocks the man onto his back hard enough that he clips his head on the ground. His eyes fall closed and Brad thinks idly: concussion. Crouching, he plucks the earpiece from the man’s ear and fits it into his own. Over the radio he can hear the soldiers barking out orders and updates.

Brad's on the third floor. The soldiers are almost through sweeping the second, heading in the direction of the stairwell where he's standing. 

Down is not an option so he heads up. 

“Be advised,” a rough voice says over the earpiece when Brad reaches the top floor and starts navigating through narrow hallways. “Suspect may have a radio.” 

Smirking to himself he double-checks the map he's following. They probably assume that since they've cut-off access to the lower doors they've succeeded in trapping him. They're not very well trained. Brad is not trapped.

He kicks open a heavy metal door at the back of a maintenance room and steps out into the brisk cold. It's a fire escape but Brad doesn’t have time to lower the ladder and climb down. He needs to disappear, and the sooner the better.

There are no other doors into the Embassy on this side of the building that he can see. The fire escape has placed him above a narrow alley, and there are no pedestrians or traffic of any kind, no windows on the building opposite. The snow on the ground is pristine.

Leaning over the wrought-iron railing, Brad lets his bag swing for a moment and then drops it. It falls straight down, landing with a heavy ‘whump’ and sends a cloud of white snow up into the air but it's hit the mark, directly below the grate where he's standing, close to the wall. 

Next, Brad climbs through the half-moon hole in the grating, balancing on the ladder but not extending it. He doesn’t want to leave a trace to indicate he's come this way, and he won’t be able to pull the ladder up once he’s done with it. Instead, he dangles with his fingers clutching against the stinging coldness of the wrought iron, swinging his legs forward until his toes catch on the inch-thick ledge of the building. 

This would really have been a lot easier if his boots fit.

He takes a moment, takes a breath, and then releases his hold of the metal, heaving himself toward the wall. 

He doesn’t fall.

He holds still and breathes.

A second later the metal door above his head kicks open and three soldiers barrel onto the cramped balcony. They look left and right, scan the alley for any sign of his presence but they don't look down. Their shifting boots kick snow onto Brad’s hair and down the back of his sweater. He’s cold enough that the pinpricks of icy snowflakes sit against his skin for a moment before they begin to melt, dripping in a sluggish cold shiver between his shoulder blades. He keeps absolutely still.

No one notices him braced just below their feet. They don’t see his blue bag sitting in the snow on the road beneath them. 

Amateurs.

The door closes behind the soldiers with a bang and Brad holds himself still for a few seconds just to be certain. The alley's quiet except for the distant swish-rush of passing traffic. Carefully, he shifts his balance and side-steps along the wall until he reaches the corner of the building. 

Passingly he notes that working on the fishing boat with Jean-Paul and the others didn't feel as natural as clinging to the side of a building does at this moment. He distributes his weight, balances, and works his way down in hops and controlled slides until he can drop the last few feet onto the snow, right beside his bag. 

It's not until he's grabbed up the bag and slung it over his shoulder that it occurs to him what he's just done. “Fuck me,” he breathes, head tipped-back to look at the Embassy, the metal fire-escape, the narrow ridge in the wall. 

It's over five stories high. 

“I’m Spiderman.”

The sound of a siren screeching passed focuses him. There isn’t time to dwell, he has to get out of Zurich and get to Paris. Brad’s weighing the pros and cons of various methods of transportation, trying to determine the safest way out of the city when he recognizes the ratty green messenger bag and the lanky guy who’s carrying it standing by a bright orange Honda Civic that looks freshly delivered from the 1980’s. 

It's possible Brad’s problem has already been solved.

“What are you looking at, homes?” the guy snaps, glaring.

Brad casts a pointed look at the vehicle the other man is standing beside. “Your piece of shit car.”

The man visibly bristles. “This car is a _classic_ .” 

“Classic piece of crap,” Brad mutters. He runs right over the “what was that?” the guy snaps and says, “I heard you in the Embassy. I think we can help each other.”

“Yeah, no thanks," the guy says, cocking his head and giving a thoroughly condescending look. "I saw you in the Embassy too. You didn’t play nice with the other kids. I don’t let whackos into my car. Especially whackos that don’t respect her.”

Brad can’t bring himself to lie and say something flattering about the piece of crap he’s looking at. He’s pretty sure that even if the guy does offer him a lift, the lower half of Brad's body will go numb from restricted circulation within the first half-hour of the drive. The car is ridiculously tiny. 

He's desperate though, so he says, “I’ll give you twenty thousand dollars to take me to Paris.” That definitely catches the guy’s attention, so Brad pulls out a stack of bills from his bag and pitches it over. 

The guy catches the money one-handed and flips through it before raising dark brown eyes to Brad. “Dude, this is batshit insane.”

There's no arguing with that. But Brad recognized the pitch in the guy’s voice when he’d been in the embassy, that edge of frustration and desperation. He’s confident he already knows how this exchange is going to end. “Half now, half when we get there.”

The guy stares down at the money in his hands for a long moment, and then his shoulders sort of sag. “No thanks, homes. I’ve got enough trouble as it is.”

The effort to resist is sort of pitiful given that the guy's almost caressing the stack of money in his hands. Brad would be amused except that he's pressed for time. “Fine,” he says. “Pass back the money and I’ll be on my way.”

“Can’t we consider it the cost for the psychological damage you caused by insulting my totally bitchin’ ride?” 

“That car is _proof_ of psychological damage.”

The guy grins and then stuffs the money in his pocket. “I think you might just be my kind of crazy, homes. Get in the car.” 

The car has manual locks, so Brad can't actually get into the thing until the guy has settled behind the wheel and then stretched across the passenger seat to pull up the lock. "Stop judging her, man," the guy scolds as Brad folds himself in half and slides into the seat. 

“I’m Ray,” the guy continues, once they're settled in the confined space.

“Brad.” 

They shake hands, and then Ray puts on a pair of giant sunglasses with shiny gold frames. “Let’s do this,” he says, and then he turns over the engine and pulls out of the alley.

___________________________________________________________________

The video screen on the paneled wall is running security footage from the American Embassy in Zurich and Joe Dowdy finds himself watching the sequence again for the seventh time, frowning. “He’s trying to blend in,” he says, mostly to himself. “He doesn’t strike the guards until after they make a move on him.”

Lovell glances toward the screen. Around the office, everyone's searching through streams of data, trying to track where their asset went after the chaos at the Embassy, looking for some clue as to what might be motivating him. 

“He emptied out his entire safety deposit box but he left his gun,” Lovell says. “What does that mean?”

Joe rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know. I can’t tell if he’s in trouble or if he’s dangerous.”

“Of course he’s fucking dangerous!” Mattis shouts, choosing that moment to stride through the door into the office. “That’s what we trained him to be.”

Joe hasn't had enough coffee for this. “There’s no precedent for this. It’s possible our asset isn’t rogue.”

“He’s rogue,” Mattis declares. “Two cops in the hospital, and a rain of chaos on a god damned US Embassy. You can be damned sure he’s rogue. You’re telling me to wait and see what else he decides destroy? We can’t handle this level of fucked-up, Dowdy.”

“I’m aware.” Joe's also aware, however, that every asset represents a significant investment, of both time and money. It just so happens that Brad Colbert is one of their top assets; better for them if he's brought in alive. If they can salvage this.

Joe says, “I’m having the Paris outpost send someone out to make contact. Maybe they can bring him in.”

Mattis is shaking his head before Joe even finishes. “That's a no-go, Dowdy. You’re activating every goddamned asset we have and you’re sending them his picture. I want Brad Colbert in a body bag before o-dark hundred. Do you understand me?”

Joe glances to the screen in time to watch their asset take down three guards in a matter of seconds and quietly thinks that escalating the situation is the wrong choice. There's too much risk for uncertain and slim reward.

“That’s enough thumb-twiddling,” Mattis continues. “It’s about time we wrapped this up.”


	3. Chapter 3

“So, check this homes,” Ray says four hours into the drive to Paris. 

According to Brad’s estimate Ray has yet to take a breath since they got in the car in downtown Zurich. The chatter is oddly soothing. Brad can stop thinking about what he knows and what he doesn’t know. He can stop trying to piece together who he might be based on the varying encounters he has had with other people since he woke up on the fishing boat, the majority of which have been violent. He can just drift. 

Ray’s voice makes the dull aching drumbeat that has been playing in his head since he left Marseilles retreat. Even if, for the most part, Brad isn’t really listening to what the other man is saying.

The first thing Ray did as soon as they were on the road was launch into a tirade about his car, which Brad knows is a Honda Civic because on the shiny metal decal on the back. On the trunk of the car there is a sticker for the 1980 Moscow Olympics which, when combined with the obviously outdated style of the vehicle, led to Brad surmising that the car was made sometime around then. He has no trouble understanding that Ray deeply hates his car, even if he would defend her to the death should anyone attempt to slander her. Ray had said, “This is what I can afford, dude.” Since the trunk seems to be stuffed with all of the man’s personal possessions Brad doesn’t comment and mostly refrains from talking shit about the hideous orange atrocity.

Then Ray started complaining about some kind of limp biscuit, which is apparently the name of a band. From there it went downhill, and Brad had trouble following any of Ray’s monologue because there were so many references to pop culture and politics and oddly, religion. Brad finds that his knowledge of these things is sketchy at best. 

He can easily match the different political leaders Ray mentions to their appropriate countries, and even finds himself able to supply information on their family and friends, the charities they support and sometimes also personal details such as how those politicians prefer to use their leisure time. 

Similarly, he finds he is well versed in the tenets of various religions, especially when those religions have influence on government and politics. When Ray begins a monologue on something called _Twilight_ , however, Brad has no idea to what the guy is referring. He suspects this has less to do with his amnesia and more to do with a general disinterest, but he can’t be certain.

“Dude,” Ray says. “Do you, like, talk _at all_? Because we’re halfway to Paris and I’ve been sitting here wondering if maybe I should check to see if you’re still breathing. Jesus, I haven’t talked this much since I invaded Iraq powered by Ripped Fuel and my own special brand of kick-ass motherfucking awesomeness.”

Brad blinks, momentarily concerned with the way Ray has his head turned to face him. “Watch the road.” 

He can’t see Ray’s eyes roll behind his sunglasses but he knows they have because Ray’s whole head follows the movement. “I’ve got it, _relax_ homes.” 

Brad considers dismissing the other man's question. He intends to part way with Ray in Paris, and the less the man knows the better for both of them. Even if he recognizes all that, Brad can't quite bring himself to shut the question down like he probably should. Instead, he says, “I don’t know who Edward Cullen is.” 

This doesn’t seem to appease Ray at all. “Have you been living under a rock, or what?”

“Not to my knowledge, no,” Brad answers, sparing a moment to smirk to himself because maybe that’s _exactly_ where he’s been living. Who knows?

“I mean, you have to have some serious skills in order to avoid ever hearing about this series.”

Brad shrugs, which leads to Ray narrowing his eyes, his head turned almost entirely in Brad’s direction to the point that Brad has to encourage the other man to watch where he’s driving, again, before he gets them both killed. Ray says, “I get the feeling you’re trying to tell me something.”

“Not so much.” 

He tries to hold out, but after so much time spent in such a confined space with this guy Brad feels himself developing a sort of fondness for him. He’s one of a handful of people that Brad knows, and he’s spoken more with Ray than every one of the fishermen on the boat back in Marseilles combined. All of the man’s monologues have been entertaining and sharp-witted. Turning away from the window Brad thinks ‘fuck it’ and says, “I don’t remember anything that happened before about two weeks ago.”

Ray tips his head back. “Ha! Awesome.” Then he glances sidelong at Brad, his dark eyes obscured by the giant gold-framed sunglasses he’s wearing. “You’re totally shitting me, right?”

“I am not,” Brad says. “I don’t know who I am. I don’t remember anything about myself.”

“Like amnesia.” Ray says the word slowly, still not quite believing. Then he turns to look at Brad as he repeats, “Amnesia?”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus Christ, homes!” Ray pounds a hand against his steering wheel. “That’s fucking intense.” He pauses. “Wait a minute, you took down those guards at the embassy. Those were crazy-ninja moves that I don’t even know and I’m a Marine.”

“Some things I remember. I can tie knots, write, speak a few languages…”

“You just don’t know anything useful, like who Edward Cullen is.” 

Brad doesn’t think Ray will accept it if he says he doesn’t think he would have known who Edward Cullen was, even if he wasn’t suffering from amnesia. “I know about Spiderman.” 

“Well, that’s something, at least,” Ray says, and then nods as if he’s decided something. “We have to give you a serious crash course on pop culture, dude.” He flips on the radio and starts to scroll through some channels. “Don’t worry, Brad. Your pal Ray Ray is gonna teach you all about the Big Bad World, and you don’t even have to throw in a tip.”

_________________________

Dowdy almost pours the entire pot of coffee out onto the rug when Lovell opens the door to his office abruptly and says,“Sir.” It is possible that he is desperately in need of sleep. A few days ago, when Dowdy had assured Mattis that he and his people were working round the clock it had been a figure of speech. It meant that there was always a team working on the Colbert problem. The team consisted of people stationed around the globe, so technically they had all the time zones represented. 

Ever since Mattis demanded that all assets be placed on stand-by, Dowdy has been very literally fulfilling his words to not sleep until the situation was resolved. “What is it, Steven?” he asks. Sighs, more like. He doesn’t have the energy to make his words sound anything but resigned. At least, not when he’s speaking to Lovell, whom he has worked with for longer than Treadstone has even existed.

“We’ve got something you should see. A different angle on the Embassy.” Dowdy manages to tip the coffee pot over his cup and fills it. He holds the pot in the air in offer but Lovell shakes his head so Dowdy slips it back onto the burner and heads toward the door of his office. 

Taking a sip from his mug he realizes he forgot to add milk and sugar. It’s a passing thought, he’s beyond caring. His mouth tastes permanently of coffee beans and cotton. Dowdy has no idea where the taste of cotton is coming from but he suspects it has something to do with the fact that he is subsisting on coffee alone. That can’t be healthy.

“Look here,” Lovell says and motions to the main screen in the control room. “It’s blurry at best but we’ve managed to grab a glimpse of the alley beside the Embassy through one of the security vids.” 

Two thirds of the screen are showing different angles on cars zipping back and forth across the street, and pedestrians walking with their heads down. One third, though, is showing a peek at a narrow alley. Lovell hits pause and Dowdy stares because there is Colbert with his head tipped down and a bag slung over one shoulder. He’s standing beside an old car. “Did we run those plates?”

“We did,” Lovell says. “They came up registered to Corporal Ray Person. He used to be a Recon Marine out of Camp Pendleton, Oceanside.”

That is not ideal. There’s always the chance that Colbert took a hostage, and then maybe Dowdy could feel a little easier about the kill-order Mattis has issued. A Marine, though, would have had no qualms about putting up a fight and from the peek of video they have of the alley Colbert seems to be talking, nothing more. “That must have been one hell of a conversation,” Dowdy mutters as Lovell lets the video play through, it shows the car pulling out into traffic and disappearing off to the left.

Lovell holds out a plain brown folder. Dowdy flips it open to see a black and white photograph of one Coroporal Ray Person. “This guy’s basically a nomad, sir,” Lovell explains as Dowdy peruses the file. “I mean he’s American, but after he retired from the Marines he’s been bouncing around the globe.”

“Get both their faces out there. I want every outpost spreading Colbert’s and Person’s pictures to local law enforcement. Wherever they pop up, I want to be ready for them.”

_________________________

Brad wakes up to Ray holding out a cup of coffee literally right under his nose. “Wakeywakey,” Ray sing-songs.

“I slept.” Brad is both pleased and surprised. Since the fishing boat, any sleep he has managed to catch has been shallow, brief, and ultimately unsatisfying. Right now though, he actually feels refreshed. His head isn’t even throbbing anymore.

“You did. I’m very proud. Now drink this coffee and eat this bagel.” Ray thrusts a small brown paper bag at him, which Brad grabs instinctively.

“I don’t think I like coffee.”

“Have you even _tried_ it?” Ray frowns when Brad wrinkles his nose. “Well, you’re drinking _this_ coffee, because I bought it for you.”

“I’m paying you twenty thousand dollars for an eight hour road trip.”

“Yeah,” Ray says. “And most of that went into buying gas. And then I used like, seven of those dollars to get you breakfast, so you better fucking eat it and be thankful.”

Brad sniffs at the paper cup before taking a careful sip. It’s strong, and crisp, and oakey. “Hm, I like this.”

Ray’s dark eyebrow arches above his ridiculous sunglasses. “You mean you ordered coffee and never bothered to taste it in its natural state before you started adding shit to it?” He rolls his eyes. “You’re fucking crazy, Amnesia-Guy.”

Brad glares. “Goddammit Ray, I _told_ you my name is Brad Colbert.”

“How can you be sure? You _also_ told me you have a bag stuffed with passports with your face and a billion different names.”

Brad thinks he probably shouldn’t have told Ray everything that he did, but he also can’t bring himself to regret it. He’s been alone since Marseilles and even then the men on the fishing boat were old and work-roughened. They’d looked at his amnesia through a haze of superstition, and mostly kept their distance. 

Ray is a burst of impossible company. It probably should be overwhelming or irritating, but Brad feels only a strange sense of relief. At no part of his story did Ray give any indication of getting nervous or leery. Instead, the more Brad said the more Ray seemed determined to stick by him and figure it all out.

“Anyway, dude, have you taken a look out your window at all?” 

Brad has mostly been focusing on his coffee, which he’s enjoying immensely but can’t help thinking is missing something, even if he can’t place what it might be. He turns his head to the window and looks out at the street. “We’re in Paris? Did you stop for gas?”

“Sure did, homes, and you slept right through it.”

Brad scans the street, watches the pedestrians moving steadily along the sidewalk. They’re in a fairly central location but the neighborhood doesn’t seem congested. “Where are we?”

“Parked across from the address you gave me.” Ray jerks his head toward a white four-story building sandwiched between two smaller three-story brown-bricked ones.

“It doesn’t look familiar,” Brad says, mostly to himself. 

He finishes off his breakfast and crumples the paper bag into a tight ball, and then crams it inside his empty cup. “Well.” He fishes out another stack of bills from his bag and hands it over. “Thanks.”

“Awesome.” Ray shoves the money inside his hoody. The guy has twenty thousand dollars stuffed in the front pocket of his sweater. Brad quirks the corner of his mouth up and shakes his head before reaching for the door.

He’s crossing the street when he realizes that Ray’s still following him. “What the fuck?” 

“What?” Ray asks. “Did you really think I was gonna just take off? Come on, we gotta figure out who Brad Colbert is.” Ray scampers up the steps to the apartment building and knocks on the glass.

“Ray,” Brad hisses.

“Well, it’s not as if we can ring the bell,” Ray points out. “I mean, obviously you’re not going to be home to buzz us in.”

“Monsieur Colbert!” a woman says from inside, bustling up to the door with a wide smile on her face. She is very short and very round, with a mass of dark curly hair. When Brad tells her that he has forgotten his keys, she opens the door completely and ushers them inside.

Ray jabs a pointy elbow into Brad's side. “Dude, you speak French.” 

“Which would make sense,” Brad says. “If I live in Paris.” 

They climb a white circling staircase with a wide red carpet. “Holy shit, you must be filthy rich,” Ray says. “I mean, obviously you are because you paid me a ridiculous sum of money to get you here. But check this place out!” 

At the end of the hall Brad fits the spare key his landlady gave him into the lock and opens the tall black door to his apartment.

He had been hoping to walk into his home and suddenly remember everything, or to finally feel as if he belonged somewhere. At the very least, he had been hoping to be able to glean some insight into who he might have been, who he might be, by looking at the furniture he picked out, the paintings he hung, maybe even in the photographs he has. He had not expected to find a place so full and so empty. 

“This place is bitchin’!” Ray says. “It’s friggin’ _huge_!”

The apartment is sizable but there’s nothing in it that gives Brad a sense of himself. Everything is pale wood floors and white walls. There’s a row of pans hanging in the kitchen, and a large range of kitchen knives. A piece of modern art sits on the wall in one room, black and white; Brad thinks its just taking up space.

“Well,” Ray concludes, having walked a circuit around the entirety of the apartment. “You’re definitely not married. And I think it’s pretty safe to say you don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Really?” 

“Dude, there’s freaking exercise equipment in your bedroom. There’s no way a chick’s gonna put up with that if she’s spending any sort of time in this place.”

Brad goes into the bedroom and realizes that Ray is right. He opens a drawer and is relieved to find clothing that looks as if it could be his. No more over-sized boots and mal-fitted clothes that only exacerbate the feeling that he doesn’t belong in his own skin.

“I’m taking a shower!” he calls to Ray when he pokes his head into the bathroom and spots fresh towels hanging from a towel rack and soap and shampoo in the shower stall. Finally, he is able to wash the smell of fish off himself. 

Brad cranks the hot water on high and lets it turn his skin pink, promising himself that he will not touch any seafood for three months at least. He washes his hair twice and his body three times before he even considers turning the water off. With a towel wrapped around his waist and his toes curling into the thick pile of his white bathroom rug, Brad flips open his medicine cabinet and sets out everything he needs to shave, and then pauses. 

There are two toothbrushes, one bright blue, and the other red. The bristles on both show signs of use; it’s unlikely that one is a spare. He thinks about it as he shaves but can’t come to any sort of conclusion. There are no photographs in his apartment. He has no way of knowing who the other person who has shared his space is, or why they aren’t searching for him.

Maybe they broke up and Brad took off on a cruise to drown his sorrows. That might explain the lack of art around the apartment. He probably threw out anything that reminded him of his once-lover before he left.

In his bedroom Brad pulls open his drawer and grabs a pair of dark jeans, then fishes a grey t-shirt out and pulls it on. In his closet he crouches down to get a pair of shoes and hesitates. He glances up at the hanging clothes and realizes that while the majority of them look as if they belong to him, there are a few items in his closet that belong to someone shorter. There is a pair of worn running shoes that are not his size sitting beside a pair of running shoes that are. Whatever his relationship with the other man is, Brad is confident he is not a roommate because there is only one bedroom, and only one bed.

On a whim, he crosses to the nightstand and pulls it open. There’s a copy of _The Odyssey_ , a box of condoms and a tube of slick. Brad shuts the drawer.

“Are you done with the shower?” Ray asks, opening the bedroom door and walking right in. “You mind if I have a quick one?” When Brad shakes his head. “Great, because I fucking reek.”

In the main room there is a row of ceiling to floor windows. Brad finds a CD player and is reminded of the disc that he had found in his safe deposit box. Fishing through his blue sack he retrieves it and flips the sound system on. 

There is only one track on the disc. When he presses play the room fills with a whispery voice and the slow trilling chords of a piano. It sounds sad and maybe wistful. _‘If you come to me, that’s all that I remember,’_ the singer says, and Brad closes his eyes. _‘Just tell me how you are, I need to know.’_

“What kind of gay-ass hippy shit are you listening to,” Ray cries, stepping into the room. “Have I taught you nothing?”

“Who sings this?” 

“It’s fucking Air Supply, dude,” Ray says, grimacing. “What sentimental bullshit.”

Brad frowns, still listening. “I like it.” 

“Where did you find that shit?” 

Ignoring the question, Brad waits for the song to finish and then pops the disc out. It seems odd that he would burn an entire CD just to have the one song, and that he would store that in his safe deposit box. _‘Do you believe, do you believe, do you still believe?’_ the singer had asked, and Brad wants to know what he’s supposed to still believe in. What he’d thought he had to believe in when he had burned the disc.

“Anyway,” Ray says. “I came out to tell you that I’m stealing some of your clothes because I left my shit in the trunk. Are we holing up here? Because if that’s the case, I’ll grab my stuff and set up shop.”

“I don’t know.” 

“Well, give it some thought.” Ray disappears back down the hall, and a moment later Brad hears a door close.

There is a small black telephone sitting on the wide glass table that clearly serves as his desk space. Brad stares at it for a moment before he decides that there’s no harm in trying. He picks the phone up and hits redial. 

_“Hotel Regina,”_ a woman with a heavy French accent says in English.

Brad pauses because it actually worked, and then has to think because it’s a hotel, who knows why he was calling that place? Maybe his ex was staying there and he called to try to entice them back, or to yell at them or something. “Uh,” he says. “I’m looking for a guest.”

 _“Yes, sir,”_ the woman says, noticeably unimpressed with his bumbling.

“Brad Colbert,” Brad says, and then wonders why he bothered because obviously he lives in Paris, he’s standing in his Paris apartment. Why would he need to go and stay at a hotel _in Paris_?

 _“I have no guest by that name, sir.”_

“Thank-you,” Brad says, and then asks her to wait a moment. “Hello, are you still there?”

_“…Sir?”_

He flips through his passports. Brad Colbert has an apartment in Paris but as far as he knows, none of the other men in his other passports do. “Wait,” he says, and scrounges for the first passport he sees. “If you could check another name for me? It’s Matthew Kempe?”

He hears the click of a keyboard and then the phone is silent for a moment. Brad starts to wonder if maybe the woman has hung up on him. A second later, though, a man comes on the line. _“You were asking about Matthew Kempe?_ ”

He hesitates. Why should it matter to this guy? “Yes.” 

_“You are a friend of his, perhaps?”_

“Yeah.” Brad only realizes he’s keeping a running tally of the passing seconds when some part of his mind suggests that perhaps the call is being traced. Who would want to trace his call?

 _“I’m very sorry sir,”_ the man on the end of the line says. _“Matthew Kempe has died, about two weeks ago. There was an accident,”_ the man continues, even though Brad is reeling. _“On the motorway. When they came for his things, it was made known to me.”_

“Who came for his things?”

 _“His brother, I think. I’m very sorry.”_

Brad disconnects the phone. 

The windows no longer offer a bright and welcoming view; instead they make him feel like a fish in a bowl. He is too exposed standing here. Stepping back into the hallway, Brad hears Ray humming happily. “Hey, Ray?”

“What’s up?”

“Just stay there for a second, okay?” The bathroom, Brad knows, has no windows and only one entrance. If Ray can keep his mouth shut for any length of time it is possible that he could be safe there.

Of course, the first thing Ray does is open the bathroom door and stick his head out. “What’s going on?”

“Just stay in the damned bathroom,” Brad says, and to punctuate the conclusion of that sentiment the window at the end of the hall shatters into thousands of tiny fragments as a guy comes swinging into Brad’s apartment hanging from some sort of bungee-chord and firing a gun.

Brad has bare feet and no weapon. The guy comes in blasting off round after round out of a Micro Galil rifle. Brad flips through the gun’s stats in his head as he dives to the right, noting as well how Ray instinctively pitches himself back into the bathroom and kicks the door closed. He can hear Ray’s voice, slightly muffled by the door of the bathroom as he says, “That guy just broke you mother fucking window!” Brad hopes he stays put.

There isn’t much time to think about anything else because the minute the shots stop firing, Brad is face to face with some dude with badly dyed blond hair whose stiff, rigid staccato kicks and punches are nonetheless powerful.

There’s a moment where he is relieved that he never bothered to put a rug in his living room, or any kind of real furniture because it means they can dance around each other pretty freely. Of course, then the guy pulls a tiny little dagger that he grips between his fingers and wields like a raptor’s claw, and Brad staggers back into his own desk in an effort to avoid the slash. 

He has no weapons. There is not even a vaguely sharp letter opener on the table. Brad grabs a Bic pen and uncaps it. He spots Ray standing in the doorway with a goddamned butcher’s knife in his hand, looking like he’s not sure if he should step into the fray or not, but is nonetheless ready if Brad needs him.

Brad jerks his head in a sharp ‘no’ and hopes the man gets the message because the next second the murderous stranger is swinging at him again. Brad jabs with the pen, stabs the guy in the shoulder hard and feels the plastic sink in through flesh and muscle. He pulls sharply and the pen is free, covered in blood, dripping. The injury hasn’t slowed the man much, though he is using his left arm less. 

It hasn’t solved the problem of the dagger.

Brad steps into the next swing and pivots so his back is to the guy’s chest. He gets a grip on the man’s wrist and when he steps away the knife is skittering across the floor and the pen is lodged in the stranger’s hand.

“Ouch,” Ray mouths. 

Without pausing to allow the stranger to regroup, Brad aims a kick at the man's stomach that lays him out on the ground. He scrambles to pin the man down. “Who are you?” 

There's a black zip pouch strapped to the man’s thigh. Brad rips it off with one hand, the other keeping the man in place, and tosses it in Ray’s general direction. “What’s in there?” he calls back, hears the zipper pull open as Ray rifles through it.

“Holy shit, this is from the fucking Embassy, Brad,” Ray says. He marches over and thrusts two pieces of paper out near Brad’s face. 

On one there are pictures of Brad obviously taken from a surveillance video at the Embassy, the bottom features smaller images of him with bizarre colored hair. As if he would ever dye his hair orange for any reason. The other page offers a similar breakdown of images this time featuring Ray. “This is freaky government conspiracy shit,” Ray is saying. “Who the hell else has access to the goddamned security cameras at the motherfucking _American Embassy_?”

“Stay over there,” Brad orders. “I’ll deal with this. Just stay over there.” His moment’s distraction is enough. The guy shoves Brad back and manages to scramble free. Ray shifts his footing, blocking the doorway but the stranger rushes in the opposite direction. He proceeds to break another of Brad’s windows as he jumps out of the apartment.

“What the fuck?” Brad stares at the hole in his floor-to-ceiling pane of glass. “He just went out the fucking window.”

Ray steps further into the room, not too close as to offer an easy target should someone else be watching the apartment, but enough to get a glimpse at the street below. His eyes are wide. When he steps back he is clearly drifting slowly into some stage of shock. Brad thinks he might not be too far behind himself.

Ray nudges the gore-covered pen with the toe of his shoe. “Oh man. Brad, check it. The pen is mightier than the sword.” He giggles a little and then frowns. “I think I might have to go puke.”

_________________________

Nate recognizes Lovell’s voice over the line when he’s told, _“Code in.”_

He doesn’t slow his pace, keeps moving up the steps toward the office. “Bravo 2-4981.” There’s a click on the line as he reaches the door, tries the handle and is relieved that, for once, the damned thing is locked. Craig must not be in yet.

 _“Tell me,”_ a new voice orders over the phone as Nate twists his key in the lock. It’s Dowdy.

Nate steps into the darkness of the office and lets the door fall closed behind him, setting the lock. “He went to the apartment.” 

_“And?”_ Dowdy prompts.

“And now Barcelona is dead.” Nate is careful to keep his voice level.

He listens patiently as Dowdy swears. _“Okay. You need to clean this up,”_ Dowdy says when he’s done cursing.

Nate snorts. “That’s not possible. There’s a body in the streets of Paris. Police are all over it. There’s no cleaning it up.”

 _“Understood,”_ Dowdy says with an exasperated sigh. _“Put up the scanners. Concentrate on getting as much radio intel as you can. Is Alpha-2 there?”_

Nate glances at Craig’s desk, considers lying for a moment. Dismisses it. “No.” 

_“That might be for the best. Run anything significant through me. Keep us updated.”_

Nate flips his cell phone closed and pitches it onto his desk. He hunches forward, runs his hands through his hair and makes his mind carefully blank. 

Every bit of this is a mess. Where the hell can he even start to fix any of it?

“What the fuck are you doing, Brad?” he asks the empty darkness of his office. He doesn’t ask the other question that has been circling in his head. The nervous, coiling question that surfaces persistently and has to be quashed time after time. ‘Are you okay? Are you still you?’ Nate refuses to give voice to it, refuses to dwell. 

Five minutes is more than enough time spent brooding. Pushing his chair back, Nate strides over to Craig’s desk. He flips the screen on and enters the password that he isn’t supposed to know. Craig uses the same password again and again for everything. Figuring it out was not a hardship, and the man rarely changes it.

He pulls up a message box and pauses. Maybe it isn’t necessary. He could be getting ahead of himself, or involving himself in something where he could do more harm than good. Nate doesn’t think so. Any time he runs the variables in his head he determines that this needs to be done. The longer he delays, the higher the risk.

Carefully, he circumvents the tracing protocols and re-routes as much as possible. He types the word ‘forward’ into the message and attaches a picture of Nykwana Wombosi. Then he changes the time information and hits send. He logs out and flips the screen off, returning to his own desk.

Switching on the scanners, Nate settles the headphones over his ears and logs into his own computer. On the screen the wide grinning face of Corporal Ray Person greets him, the man’s dark brown eyes obscured by the bright green lettering announcing: Search Complete.

Nate has to get ahead of this if he’s going to stand any chance of stopping it.

_________________________

Brad finds himself folded in half again, sitting in the front seat of what he’s taken to thinking of as Ray’s shit-mobile. His blue bag is in the trunk stuffed inside a dark duffel bag, along with a few belongings from his apartment.

“It looks like somebody robbed the place,” Ray had said as they’d left.

“Good,” Brad replied. “Maybe they’ll think the robber killed whoever the hell that guy was.”

Ray was shaking a little when he’d slipped behind the wheel of his car. He’d brushed it off, “Adrenaline,” he’d said. “I’m just processing what the hell just happened. That’s not the first dead guy that I’ve seen. Just FYI, I actually fought in a war, so y’know, I’ve seen worse.”

There’s a difference Brad knows, between seeing a body in a war zone and seeing one lying in the middle of a street in a city like Paris. After the guy just swung in through a window with his gun literally blasting, no less. Who the hell does shit like that?

Ray rubs a hand over his face. “Your friends are weird.” 

“I don’t think that guy was a friend. At least, I doubt we were very close.”

“It could have been like Cato and Clouseau, y’know, like in _The Pink Panther_?” Ray suggests. “Like maybe he was just testing you, or something.”

“And what,” Brad says. “I passed, so he threw himself out the window?” They’re parked at the side of the road across from the train station; Brad twists around and pulls his duffel out of the back seat. “I’ll be back. But if you aren’t here then I’ll understand. I won’t try to contact you.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” 

Brad gets a locker in the train station and pushes his duffel bag inside. It’s his escape route, his security, his back-up plan. He’s got everything he needs in there. He takes one stack of bills and tucks it in the high-collared black coat he threw on over his grey T-shirt.

When he crosses back over the street Ray’s obnoxious shit-mobile is still parked but there’s no sign of Ray. Brad has a moment of genuine concern that maybe Ray was abducted, but then he spots the man trotting back across the street with a brown paper bag in his hand.

“Gunfire, followed by epic brawl, followed by suicide,” Ray says, stopping by the side of the car. “I thought we could use some Tequila. Am I wrong?”

Brad grins sharply before his attention is caught by something else. There is a police car pulling into a free spot just down the street. “I think you should get out of here,” he says. “Seriously. Go to the cops, explain what happened.” He jerks his head to the black hoody that Ray had grabbed and thrown on over the shirt he’d stolen from Brad’s wardrobe. “You can show them the money, they’ll believe you.”

“Nuh uh. I’ve seen my horror movies. This is some freaky shit happening here and I intend to be the survivor girl. I’m pretty enough, I know how to handle myself, and I’m gonna stick like glue to the hero so we either go out in a blaze of glory together, or you end up falling in love with me and save my ass before tragically dying.”

“I don’t think I’m going to end up falling in love with you.” 

Ray is entirely serious when he says, “I’m totally cool with that. So long as you stick to the ‘saving my ass’ bit.” He pulls the papers the guy who’d tried to kill them had in his pouch and holds them up so Brad can see their pictures. “This shit right here? This is government conspiracy level shit. I’m a Marine, but I’m pretty sure that guy who just swan dived out of your apartment would have taken me down.”

Brad glances back to the cop car - their heads are together but they haven’t stepped out of the vehicle. It’s only a matter of time.

“Fine. If you’re sure, then I need you to give me the keys.”

“What?” Ray squawks. “You’ll hurt her!”

“Ray,” Brad says. “Now.” 

Ray glances over to the cop car, where the cops are just stepping out of their vehicle. He drops the keys into Brad’s waiting hand and crawls over the driver’s seat to settle onto the passenger side.

“She handles fine,” Ray is saying, as Brad is fishing a map out of the backseat. “Maybe pulls a little to the right. But she’s got a tight turning radius.”

Brad’s eyes flicker over the chaotic swirling lines on the map. Beside him, Ray looks out the window and then glances over. “Hey, Brad. They’re almost on top of us.” 

Brad turns the engine over and backs the car up. “You better have your goddamned seat-belt on, Person.”

“Dude, _survivor girl_. That means I’m not an idiot.”

Spinning the wheel and reversing the car, Brad shoots past the scrambling cops and turns right. There’s a light rain falling and the roads are slick with it. He can feel the back of the car skidding as he accelerates. “What the hell are you talking about? Survivor girl?”

Ray throws his hands up in the air; he’s got his feet spread so he can brace himself. “In horror movies, and like, freaky suspense movies and shit, there’s always this one chick, right, who makes it. The survivor girl.” 

They run a gauntlet as police cars drop onto their location like flies onto a dish of honey. Brad counts six cars already on their tail. He dodges a slow moving vehicle in front of them and ends up driving in the lane for oncoming traffic. 

Ray wraps a hand around the little grip above the passenger door. “You gotta love Paris, man,” he says. “I mean, nobody has even figured out this is a high speed chase yet. They think we’re just late for work or something.” Brad switches gears and bumps up onto the sidewalk, sending pedestrians lunging to the left and right to get out of his way. “Well, they sure as shit know we’re running now!”

There’s police on motorbikes at their six, cop cars at their three o’clock. Brad’s driving through the streets of Paris like he actually remembers them and Ray’s talking shit like they’re just out for a normal drive. “Anyway, the survivor girl can’t be trashy, because that’s just like a rule for all horror movies. If you’re a slut you’re usually the first to die. And she’s always smart and sort of pretty.”

“There’s a bump coming up,” Brad points out, and then cranks the wheel left down a narrow alley. 

“That’s cool, man,” Ray says, dismissively. Then he sees where they’re heading and amends his statement, “Holy _shit_!” They bounce down three steep sets of stairs and across a small park before spinning back into traffic. 

There’s one cop on a bike still behind them but they seem to have lost everyone else for the time being. Brad sets them going against traffic and brings them out onto a pretty wide and very busy road. He cuts right and the cop can’t correct in time, which leaves their crappy bright orange and entirely too visible piece of shit car traveling in the same direction as commuters, and the cop on his bike on the other side of a long cement boulevard, going against traffic but having less trouble because he’s on a motorcycle. 

If Brad were on a motorcycle, he’d be having considerably less trouble ditching this cop.

He hits the brakes and Ray squawks at him. “We’re in the middle of a high speed chase, why the hell did you just stop?” Then he looks to the right, at the giant postal truck that has walled them off from sight. “Oh. Not bad.”

Ahead, the cop spins out because he’s paying more attention to where they might have gone than to the traffic in front of him. “Persistent sonofabitch,” Brad mutters, and then turns down another road and drives sedately until he cuts left into an underground parking garage.

“I am sorry to have to tell you this, Ray,” Brad says, as he pulls into a parking spot and cuts the engine. “But you’re going to have to say goodbye to this vintage crap-mobile.”

“Dude, I hate this car. Let’s go.” He grabs a bag from the trunk but leaves the rest of his belongings. Brad respects a man who can prioritize. “You just rained chaos and destruction down on the streets of Paris, Brad. Shit,” Ray adds as they hike up the pedestrian footpath and out onto the sidewalk. “The Marine Corps wasn’t this intense.”

_________________________

Dowdy is pinching the bridge of his nose because he is not physically capable of pinching the persistent throb that is in his brain. “Say again?” he asks the phone.

 _“Uh,”_ Paris Alpha says. _“A high speed chase?”_

“That is high visibility,” Lovell says, quietly, because they have their Paris outpost on speakerphone. “Why would he draw so much attention to himself? These guys are trained to be invisible.”

Over the line, Dowdy hears Schwetje make a 'hmm'ing noise. _“Maybe when the police find the car there’ll be a clue.”_

“This isn’t a scavenger hunt, Alpha-2,” Dowdy says. “This is a rogue asset that we need to get under control.”

 _“Oh!”_ Schwetje says, like he’s just remembered something. Dowdy waits. _“Wombosi was at the morgue late last night. He wasn’t convinced by the substitute, sir.”_

“Jesus Christ,” Dowdy says. “That is high priority information! Why was I not notified of this sooner?”

_“Uh…”_

He can actually hear the man shrug over the phone line. “Was Bravo-2 made aware of this?” 

The silence is answer enough, but to make the whole situation even more ridiculous, Dowdy’s Paris Alpha says, _“Why would I notify Bravo before HQ?”_

Dowdy takes a very long bracing breath. “Maybe because you went home before you bothered to notify HQ! Dismissed!” Dowdy clicks off the line, and then proceeds to swear. “Fucking _incompetent_! We need to cleanup this Wombosi situation before it gets any worse…”

“Sir.” Lovell jerks his head to indicate the screen of his computer. Dowdy shuffles over and peers down at it. It’s a police report. “Nykwana Wombosi is already dead.”

How the hell did that even happen? “Was it us?”

“There’s been no hit put out from any of our outposts,” Lovell says. He shrugs. “I don’t know, sir. The report reads like it was a sniper.”

“The man has pissed off a lot of people. And not just the CIA.” He mulls this over, considers how to play it. He can hear Mattis barreling down the hallway and motions for Lovell to turn off the screen. “This is a piece of luck for us. We’re not looking this gift horse in the mouth. Pull everyone off Wombosi, let’s focus on Colbert.”

“Yes sir."


	4. Chapter 4

They end up walking in silence through the streets of Paris. Brad isn’t sure if everything that has happened in the past twenty-four hours is finally starting to catch-up to Ray, or if the man is maybe just tired. Brad doesn’t dwell on it, he is preoccupied trying to process what he can no longer deny: somebody wants to kill him.

It should feel stranger than it does but oddly he isn’t all that surprised. Mostly he just wants one familiar thing that he can hold-up and say, ‘Yes, I know this. This is recognizable to me’. The only thing that feels remotely comforting is Ray Person. Brad’s pretty sure that’s an indication of mental instability, but Ray’s chatter keeps him focused, keeps him from tail-spinning.

“How about here?” Ray tips his head to the right, toward a corner entrance off the street. The sign reads: Hotel de la Paix. 

The woman behind the desk smiles at them and hands over a key, and it’s not until Brad pushes open the door that he realizes the mistake. She’s given them a single room with a queen-sized bed. There is no second bed. Ray sighs. “I don’t even care. I’m so fucking tired, and I’ve slept in worse conditions. Just, like, don’t molest me in your sleep or something.” He chucks his bag onto a chair before collapsing onto the bed.

Brad walks a circuit through the room, pulling the curtains closed and making certain the windows are locked. It feels like he’s moving out of habit, some part of himself that knows what has to be done and is doing it, which is good because his brain has gone carefully blank.

“So, what now?” Ray asks the ceiling.

Brad glances toward the bed where Ray is sprawled like a starfish. There is a chair in the corner beside the one holding Ray’s luggage, but Brad doesn’t sit. Instead, he stands there awkwardly in the room. “Ideally, we would take the opportunity to alter our appearance.”

“You are a six foot four, motherfucking Aryan giant,” Ray points out. “Dying your hair, like, red or something isn’t going to make you any less conspicuous. Also, I am _not_ going blond for you.”

Brad had already figured all of that, which is why he hadn’t suggested they stop at a pharmacy before they found a hotel. He hadn’t liked the idea of changing his own appearance. The one thing about himself that is beginning to find familiar is his own reflection; he hadn’t wanted to change that, no matter how sensible it might be to do so.

“I have to go to the Hotel Regina. If I’m Kempe, then they’ll have some records that could be useful. Only…”

“Only, you’re dead,” Ray offers helpfully. He waves his hand. “No worries. I got this.”

“Are you…?”

“Don’t even,” Ray says, lifting his head off the bed so he can glare at Brad. He taps a finger against his own chest, “Recon Marine,” then he points to Brad, “Crazy Amnesia Guy.”

Brad rolls his eyes toward the ceiling. “Right.”

________________________

Dowdy is getting used to coming into his office and finding James Mattis sitting at his desk like it belongs to him. It is, Dowdy has discovered, a terrible way to begin the day but he can’t exactly ask the man, who is technically his boss, to go away and come back after Dowdy has managed to finish at least one pot of coffee. He also can’t delay and come in late, hoping that Mattis will get bored and go away. James Mattis is the most stubborn and persistent man Joe knows, and there is no amount of time that he can delay that might incite the man to leave. Lovell has taken to meeting him by the door with a cup of coffee. It’s not enough, but it’s at least something.

“Jesus Christ,” is how Mattis greets him when Dowdy pushes open his office door. “What the hell is going on in this goddamned office? Did you do this?” He holds up the morning’s newspaper where Nykwana Wombosi’s face is featured along with a three page article discussing the accusations Wombosi made regarding a CIA assassin trying to kill him, and the suspicious nature of his death.

Dowdy sets his briefcase onto his desk and stands there with his coffee mug, wishing that Mattis wasn’t in his chair because he’d really like to sit down. “We think it was Colbert.”

There was no official hit authorized, and nothing went out through Treadstone networks, so he at least knows it wasn’t them. Wombosi has other enemies, true, but the hit was clean and precise and any of the people Dowdy knows who had the means and motive to assassinate the man would have made more of a message out of it. The only message the single clean bullet directly through the center of the man’s forehead leaves is: go away.

“Holy goddamned hell,” Mattis mutters. “This crazy sonofabitch is completely out of control. Why isn’t he dead yet?”

“We think that now that he’s completed his original assignment, he’ll come in. That’s usually how the training works.”

“There is no ‘usually’ in this situation!” Mattis snaps. “We’ve got a black-ops agent who’s completely off the reservation. He’s put two cops in the hospital, trashed an American Embassy and now has just assassinated a public figure! He’s on the run somewhere in Europe and who the fuck knows why. So don’t give me ‘usually’, Dowdy. Give me definitive. If you can’t, then activate the next asset and get this sorted.” 

Dowdy watches as the man rubs his hands over his reddened face. “I have to stand in front of a damned oversight committee and what the hell am I supposed to say about Treadstone when everything is so colossally _fucked_?” Mattis says.

If they do not manage to bring Colbert in, or put Colbert down, then Dowdy knows that the very least of their concerns will be whatever the oversight committee decides about their budget. Maybe Mattis has been wandering around the interior of Langley so long that he’s forgotten about the real world, but Joe doesn’t have that luxury. If this gets out then they’re all going down, and it will be exceedingly messy and extremely public.

________________________

The sheets are scratchy against Brad’s skin. He lies on his back, Ray snoring contentedly beside him, and tries to think about nothing. 

Sleep has been elusive since Marseilles. The rest he managed on the ride over was the longest and most satisfying stretch of actual sleep he has managed since waking up on the boat, but Brad doesn’t fool himself into thinking that it marked a permanent change.

He rolls carefully onto his left side, faces the beige-painted wall and closes his eyes. There is the faint sound of traffic in the street outside, the periodic quiet whoosh of a car, laughter as people walk along the street. He lets it fill him up, lets it take away thoughts about guns and glass and knives, and the fact that he is beginning to wonder if he even wants to know who he is.

When he breathes in there is a spicy hint of cloves in the air, a bright citrus smell underneath it that he can’t quite place. Brad breathes in deep. Feels like he knows that smell somehow, like it’s familiar.

There is an arm draped around his waist and he looks down, prepared to shove Ray back to his own side of the bed, but it’s not Ray’s arm. “What are you thinking about?” a voice whispers, puffs warm breath across the back of his neck.

It’s not Ray. Brad’s no longer laying under the rough sheets in the small, drab little hotel room; he’s somewhere else. It might be his apartment; it might be somewhere he doesn’t remember, he can’t tell, the image blurs when he tries to concentrate too hard.

Instead, Brad lets his eyes close again, feels the cool softness of the sheets and the warmth along his back. The rhythm of his breath echoed in the body of the man who is lying behind him. It doesn’t make him feel tense and claustrophobic the way he feels when he walks down a crowded street. He feels anchored and safe, like he’s precisely where he is supposed to be. 

“I think I’m dreaming.”

There’s another puff of warm breath across the naked skin of his shoulders. The arm around his waist shifts up, and Brad looks down at the hand that splays wide across his chest. “You’re wide awake,” the man whispers, drops a kiss to Brad’s shoulder. “And you’re in bed with me.”

Brad finds himself entwining his fingers with the hand resting on his chest. “It’s a very good dream.”

This time there is a warm chuckle that makes him smile. “What will it take tonight?”

The question strikes him as strange, even as he realizes that the man says it like it’s somehow traditional. Like this is something they go through often. He keeps his eyes closed and feels the man shift closer, dropping soft, unhurried kisses along Brad’s skin. “Tell me about Tuscany.”

“You travel more than I do,” the man says, his voice still soft, something fond making his words feel like another kind of caress. 

“I don’t get to sight-see,” Brad points out. “You see everything differently.”

There’s a kiss that falls onto his temple and Brad wants to open his eyes and look at the man who is holding him and touching him, but he’s also afraid that if he tries to focus on the other man in his bed he will blur and fade the same way the room did when Brad tried to remember it. 

“Not so differently,” the man whispers.

But then he talks about the green hills rolling like waves higher and higher, building into the distance. How the sun spills light out onto fields of sunflowers. Brad falls asleep listening to a description of the morning mist, filling in the dips between the hills until the world looks like it was built in a cloud.

When he wakes up he’s back in the motel, Ray still asleep on the opposite side of the bed, though thankfully he’s kept his limbs to himself. Brad wonders if that other bed he had dreamt about was actually a memory. It makes him wonder if that was the same man who shared Brad’s apartment, who kept his running shoes beside Brad’s in the closet and his toothbrush in the bathroom cabinet. Did they break-up? Are they still together? 

It’s the first time he spares a moment to regret the ease with which he dismissed the fishing boat captain’s suggestion that he go to the police. “They will take your picture,” Captain Gerard had said. “They will show it around, see if someone recognizes you. You are not the first person to have amnesia ever, yes?” Brad had thought only of the bullets that Jean-Paul had plucked from his back. It had made him less inclined to work any public channels for answers. He’d had the bank account number, which had seemed like the safer bet.

But the bank account had given him no suggestion of anyone who might have shared his life with him. The apartment might have held a clue, but there hadn’t been time to search for it. 

“Ray,” he says, because he doesn’t want to dwell. “Wake up. We have to get going.”

“Five more minutes.” 

Brad rips the blanket off the other man. “ _Now_ , Ray.”

________________________

Nate pushes open the blue door of the café and spots Mike at the usual table, already with two cups of coffee waiting. It’s only been a few days but having Mike in the city is starting to feel normal, like the man has always lived here. “Morning,” Nate greets as he drapes his coat over the back of a chair before he sits down. 

Instead of a response, Mike drops the newspaper onto the table, spinning it around so the front page is facing Nate. He doesn’t need to glance down to know what it reads but he does anyway. Takes the five seconds he spends looking into Nykwana Wombosi’s face to calculate the best response.

“Jesus, Nate,” Mike says, which prevents him from denying any responsibility. 

Mike knows him too well. The downside to a job like Nate’s is that if your close friends are all in the same line of work, then every trick and lie you know will almost never fool them. Even for a moment. 

He folds the newspaper and sets it aside, picking up his coffee cup and taking a sip. He raises his eyebrows pointedly. “I know our Paris asset well enough to determine this was a measure that had to be taken.”

Mike rolls his eyes. “Knock it off, would ya? It’s me you’re talking to.”

Nate nods, almost to himself and sets his cup down. “None of this is like Brad. Not a single piece of what’s been happening in the past few weeks makes sense. Which means one of two things. Either the Treadstone conditioning has caught-up with him and he’s snapped. Or he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing.”

“Neither one of those are good options.” 

Nate shrugs. “Either way, this had to be done. I can’t help thinking he’s tracing his steps. He went to Zurich _before_ he came to Paris. If that was the case, he’d track his steps back here,” he taps the paper. “Wombosi wasn’t exactly a very forgiving sort of man.”

Mike stares at him for a moment. “I’m not even going to ask how you put the order through.”

“Probably best if you don’t know.”

“And what happens if he knows exactly what he’s doing? What happens if this is what everyone is saying it is: a rogue asset out on some sort of vendetta kick?”

Nate rolls his eyes. “Does this seem like vengeance to you? He hasn’t come anywhere near the agency yet. Except for Barcelona, and that might have just been self-defense.”

“Nate…”

“Then I’ll deal with it,” Nate says, sitting back in his chair, his gaze shifting away.

“Bullshit,” Mike says. “I know Brad, too, you know. I know you pretty damned well, also. No way I’m buying that you’d be prepared to sort this the way Command is wanting it sorted.”

Nate doesn’t feel inclined to respond to that. Langley has been on the hook asking for the next asset to be set in place; ready to move the minute they have a location. “I’ve got an asset already on standby,” Nate tells Mike, gets a grim sort of satisfaction out of the way his friend’s eyes widen. He can’t afford to explain his strategy.

“Nate,” Mike says, cautious, like he’s trying to read between the lines of everything Nate is saying. Nate wishes the man luck but in this at least, he is being deliberately vague. “You’re not alone, here. I came so I can help, however you need.”

He’s known Mike for a long time. He trusts the man implicitly, which is why he says, “I can’t, Mike. However this plays out, I can’t have anyone else implicated. When it’s over, then it’s done. You know how this goes; you know how we work. I refuse to let there be some bureaucratic Inquisition that extends beyond Paris.”

“Are you going against Treadstone?”

Nate raises his eyebrows and matches his friend’s eyes with a steady gaze. He says, “I’m doing my job.” He refuses to say anything further. He thinks Mike already understands.

________________________

Ray waltzes out of the Hotel Regina with a cheeky grin, which Brad thinks must mean that the mission was a success. It’s confirmed when Ray trades Brad two folded pieces of paper for the bag that he has been minding. “That was ridiculously easy,” Ray says. “Next time, give me something that’s at least a little bit of a challenge.”

Brad unfolds the papers. On the first is a breakdown of Matthew Kempe’s bill. The second page holds a list of phone numbers Kempe dialed while staying at the hotel, as well as the cost of each call. “I need to find a phone.” 

There is a payphone at the end of the street, which Brad rigs so as to avoid paying; he doesn’t have any change anyway. Ray heads off in the direction of a restaurant somewhere after the fifth call, and Brad continues to work his way down the list until he finally hits a Paris number with some promise.

“Alliance Security, Maritime Division,” he announces as he drops into the booth across from Ray. “I’ve got a meeting in a half hour. They know Matthew Kempe.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” 

Brad tips his head to the side. “Maybe not, but I don’t see how I have much choice.”

“Stop this ‘I’ bullshit,” Ray says. “I’m right here. Give me something to do.”

“Check around on Kempe.”

“What, you mean in case he’s your twin brother?”

Brad stares at him a moment. “Yeah.”

________________________

Dowdy’s day starts to pick up when Lovell sticks his head through the open door and announces, “Paris police have found the vehicle.” He marches out into the main room and puts his hands on his hips. “Tell me.”

Of course, there are no fingerprints in the car, nothing that connects it to Colbert. The police involved in the chase, those who didn’t end-up in hospital, recognize that particularly hideous shade of orangey-yellow though, and that’s something.

From there they have a start point, and within three hours Dowdy gets the next piece of good news. “Hotel de la Paix? Get me the Paris outpost, I want them working on this.” Nathaniel Fick answers the call, but Dowdy hears Schwetje coming into the office because the man won’t stop talking and he has a loud voice. Apparently the information has come right during a shift change. 

“It’s fine, Bravo-2.” Dowdy tries to mean it. “Dismissed. Get some shuteye. With any luck this will be resolved before you come into work tomorrow.”

 _“I hope so, sir,”_ Fick says, and then there’s the little chiming beep that means Fick has transferred Dowdy over to Schwetje’s line. 

_“Alpha-2,”_ Schwetje greets. 

Dowdy paraphrases everything all over again and says, “Get the Paris police on it. I want them staking out that hotel room and ready to move the moment Colbert shows his face. Get the asset shadowing that hotel as well. Tell him to stick to Colbert. When we give the order, I want him in place.”

 _“Roger that.”_

The directions are simple, so when Dowdy hangs up he feels confident that he might actually be able to go home tonight, curl up in bed after explaining to his wife that it was a spur of the moment work assignment that he just couldn’t turn down. With any luck, she won’t sentence him to the couch; she’s usually pretty understanding. Treadstone can go back to being invisible, and Mattis can forget that he’s head of their little secret department, and Dowdy won’t have to see the man first thing in the morning before he’s had a chance to fortify himself with an entire pot of coffee.

________________________

“I just had a meeting as Kempe, so I am definitely Kempe.” Brad drops into a chair at Ray’s table, pulling the plate of breaded calamari Ray’s snacking on over and popping one in his mouth. “I’m definitely Colbert, but I’m also definitely Kempe.”

“Well,” Ray says around a mouthful of calamari. “I hate to tell you this, Mr. Kempe, but you’re dead. Hey,” he adds. “You’re pretty hot for a zombie though. That’s something.”

Brad frowns. “Ray, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“While you went and had your little gay-ass talk about yachts or whatever the fuck, I did some digging on Kempe, and I found you,” he pauses, seemingly for dramatic effect and then blurts, “Dude, you’re in a _morgue_. Sorry to have to tell you this.” He doesn’t look at all sorry.

“I can’t be in a morgue,” Brad argues. “I just had a meeting as Kempe. I _am_ Kempe.”

Ray shrugs and pops another breaded piece of calamari into his mouth. “Then who the hell _else_ is claiming to be Kempe? Because whoever that dude is, he’s dead.”

Brad frowns at the calamari and flags down the waiter, asks for Ray’s bill. “We’re leaving,” he says, as Ray drops his money on the table. 

“Checking out the morgue?” Brad nods. “Right on, right on.”

It’s late by the time they get there but there is only a young, skittish attendant who happily clutches the money Brad hands over and pulls open one of the small metal doors in the wall. Ray and Brad both stare at the slab the attendant pulls out for them. 

“Uh, dude,” Ray says. “Where’s the body?” 

“What?” The attendant finally turns his head to look at the slab he’s just pulled out. “Oh shit. Uh… Maybe his brother came back and took it?” he’s muttering, which prompts Brad to turn on his heel. “Wait a moment, wait, where are you going?” 

Brad ignores the attendant and yanks the big brown book off the front desk, flipping it open. Everyone is required to log-in when they enter. He and Ray bypassed that step because whoever said money couldn’t buy everything was lying. Now, Brad finds the day’s sheet and rips it clean out of the book. “Oh my goodness,” the attendant is saying, but Brad walks out of the morgue and up the stairs, back onto the street.

“Well, that was weird,” Ray says, jogging to catch up. “For a change. What have you got?”

“Nykwana Wombosi,” Brad reads off the sheet. “He went to see Kempe.”

“Wombosi and Kempe. Yeah, they sound like they could be related.” 

Brad ignores the comment. “He obviously knows something about this. I have to talk to him.”

“Sure thing,” Ray says, and then he starts back stepping. “Wow, hold-up. I knew that name sounded familiar. Check it!” 

Brad glances at the newspaper stand that Ray is pointing at. **‘Nykwana Wombosi Murdered’** is in bold type on the front page. He hands over the correct amount of change to the vendor, picking up the paper as he offers an absent ‘merci’ to the man. 

He reads the entire article and thinks that he should feel something. Shock, or denial, some kind of reaction to what he’s piecing together, but all he can think is, ‘Oh.’

“What?” Ray asks, when Brad hands over the paper. “Dude, I can’t read French for shit. Just tell me.”

Brad lets out a slow breath, ruffles a hand through his hair before he turns to face the other man. “It says that three weeks before he was killed a man climbed onto Wombosi’s yacht five miles off the coast of Marseilles and tried to kill him. Wombosi chased the man off the boat and shot him three times in the back.” Brad blinks; he still feels nothing. “It says that I’m an assassin.”

Ray gapes at him a moment, and Brad doesn't wait around long enough for the other man to think-up a response. They catch a cab to the hotel and Brad keeps waiting for Ray to tell him he’s leaving, that it’s been fun. Instead, Ray’s expression is wholly inscrutable, and he says nothing at all.

Nearing the motel, Brad catches sight of flashing red lights and orders their cab driver to stop. “Stay, if you want,” he says to Ray, “but I’m going. They’re onto the hotel.”

Ray’s out the other side of the car and chasing after Brad. “What the fuck? Are you serious? How can you be sure?” 

Brad jerks his head back to the end of the street. “Think about it, Ray. What are the odds of there being some other reason for all those cops to be parked on that street, right in front of the hotel we’ve been staying at?”

“I’m not being naïve,” Ray insists. “It’s just, you put this shit together so fast, and some of us take a second to figure it out! I would have totally walked right into that place.”

“Well, apparently that’s because you’re not an _assassin_.” And oh, there it is. Now he feels anger and frustration building up inside him. He pushes it resolutely back down, and refuses to think about it.

“Hey.” Ray catches up to him again as Brad heads in the opposite direction from their hotel. “I’m not here because I thought you were going to turn out to be some kind of hero. Sure, that would have been great. But I saw how you dropped those guards at the Embassy. People don’t keep the shit you had in your safety-deposit box because they live in a completely normal world. Okay?”

Brad hadn’t wanted to discover that he was a hero. He’d just wanted to find out where the hell he belonged. Apparently, the answer was exactly nowhere because he wasn’t supposed to exist. He went three weeks feeling like a shadow only to realize that apparently, he’d _chosen_ to be exactly that. He was a shadow long before he’d ever lost his memories. 

That was why no one was looking for him. No one except the police, apparently.

“Look,” Ray says. “Have your hissy-fit, I’m not trying to stop you. But as far as I can see, this hasn’t changed anything.”

“How can you be so _fucking stupid_?”

“How can _you_ be so fucking stupid?” Ray retorts. “Where exactly do you plan on going? Gonna touch-base with one of your old pals? Huh?” Brad turns away and starts walking again, but Ray is right beside him. “You’ve got nowhere to go, and people are still trying to kill you. What we need,” he says. “Is a place to hole-up, where we can figure things out.” 

Brad can’t disagree. He stays silent as Ray claps a hand on his upper arm. “Luckily, your dearest pal Ray-Ray has just the spot.”

________________________

“What part of fucking stake-out didn’t they understand?” Craig yells as he paces around the office. “I _specifically_ told them!”

Craig had, for once, been utterly specific. Nate keeps silent, his expression completely blank. No one needs to know how a quiet stakeout turned into five police cars blockading the road with their lights shining, just like no one needed to know who ordered the hit on Wombosi.

“The French are fucking _morons_!” Craig snarls. “Dowdy is going to be pissed.”

“Mistakes happen.” 

“At least I know you have my back, Nate.” 

Nate nods. “But there’s only so much I can do here, Craig. I mean, I wasn’t in the office when you carried out Dowdy’s orders.”

Craig pauses and blinks wide brown eyes, hearing what Nate is carefully not saying. “Do you think it will come to that?”

“We’re breaking a lot of new ground here,” Nate says, calmly. “We’ve never dealt with a situation like this. I can’t say how command will crack down on us once this gets settled.”

The phone rings and Craig actually jerks back a little. “You answer it.” Nate clicks on the speakerphone. 

_“Alpha-2-7981!”_ Dowdy’s voice actually booms before Nate can even offer some sort of greeting.

“Sir!” Craig says. 

_“What part of ‘stake out’ did you not understand?”_

“Sir! I was very specific when I relayed the orders.”

_“Well, get out of that office anyway! You’re like a bad luck charm, and there’s enough shit we’re trying to deal with as it is!”_

Craig staggers back. “Am I fired?”

 _“You’re not fucking fired, I’m just sick of talking to you, so go home!”_ Craig grabs his jacket and runs out the door. _“You better be in that goddamned outpost, Fick,”_ Dowdy shouts.

Nate picks up the phone, now that the speakerphone is no longer necessary. “Sir.”

_“As of sixteen minutes ago we know Colbert was by the hotel. That’s our start point. They can’t fly, and trains are risky. I’ve got everyone here working on grids, and checking into Ray Person. I want to know everywhere he’s lived in the past six years, and I want people checking those addresses.”_

Nate can hear the people taking these orders and getting to work. Suddenly thousands of clicking keyboards are echoing faintly in the background on Dowdy’s end of the line. _“Have you got the asset on standby?”_

“Yes sir, all he needs is a location.”

 _“Good. Pull up what you can on your end. We’ll be in touch.”_ Dowdy clicks off.

In the silence of the office, Nate settles back into his chair and calls up the map he’s been working on. He narrows the parameters, watches as the colored markers speckling the globe suddenly become six locations within Europe. One of those locations is in France.

Nate stares at the address and hesitates. There’s no way to be certain, and the wrong move at this time would cause more harm than good. After a moment, he pushes back from the desk and reminds himself to be patient.

________________________

Brad drives their boosted Volkswagen all the way to wine country, up a private road and through an actual wrought-iron gateway. “I know. He can be so fucking pretentious, right?” Ray says as he hops out of the car.

Brad looks around at the acres of land, and the three-story manor house they are facing. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Absolutely,” Ray says, with total confidence. 

Brad isn’t mollified. He has learned that Ray says just about everything with absolute confidence. Ray stoops by a giant planter by the front door and shifts one of the bricks on the edge of the walkway, fishing a key out from beneath it, then proceeds to unlock the front door. 

Brad frowns. “How do you know this guy?”

“We fought a war together, dude. That kind of shit builds bonds. Seriously, he won’t mind us being here.”

When they step inside Brad notices the Christmas lights glinting everywhere, and the giant Christmas tree replete with red and gold ribbon and a gold star at the top. Then he notes the pair of boots sitting to the left of the front door surrounded by a small puddle of melting snow. 

“God _dammit_ Ray,” he hisses.

“Ray?” someone says, and Brad looks up and notices where a guy even shorter than Ray is holding a rifle trained on them. He doesn’t look like he ever went to war, Brad thinks this guy looks like a choir boy, but he can also tell in the steady hands gripping the gun and the sharp stiffness of the kid’s posture that whoever this guy is, he has handled a weapon before and has fired more than one shot to good effect.

“Hey, Walt! Merry Christmas! Look, I brought you a present!” Ray greets, ignoring the rifle and walking right up to the guy, wrapping him in a hug. _“He’s got amnesia,”_ he whispers loudly, then spoils the effort by turning to Brad and saying, “Hey, Amnesia Guy. Meet Walt!”

“Hello,” Walt says, still looking a bit wide-eyed. “Er...”

“Colbert,” Brad says. “Brad.”

“Ah.” Walt lowers the rifle and shakes Brad’s hand. “Did he rope you into this?” Brad keeps silent but Walt seems to have already come to the correct conclusion. “What do you need help with this time, Ray?”

“Come on, can’t I just be visiting because I missed you, Pooky?” Ray pinches Walt’s cheek and threatens him with smoochy-lips, which Walt deftly smacks away before turning and heading further into the house. When Brad follows, he finds the man in the kitchen preparing coffee. 

Walt glances up as he sets out some cheese and some fresh bread. “Tell me everything from start to finish, or I’m kicking you out of my house.”

“You’re gonna love this,” Ray assures his friend. And then starts, “So, there I am stuck in Zurich…” 

Hearing the entire saga from Ray’s perspective makes it seem wholly ridiculous. That may have something to do with the embellishments Ray gives his narrative. It’s the sort of story that only appears in bad fiction.

Brad finds himself sitting in Walt’s grandiose kitchen only half listening to a recount of the little bit of his life that he actually remembers: the last several weeks. He has a plan, albeit a loose one, to uncover who is trying to kill him and why, but he keeps getting stuck on Ray, and now Walt.

He would like to be able to worry about them. They’re liabilities, but also Brad thinks he’d feel a little disappointed if Ray got shot and killed. They’re not friends, really. Friends are people who share some mutual sense of affection, and usually a few interests or opinions or something. Under normal circumstances Brad doesn’t think he’d have spared Ray Person a second thought. Being at the same place at the same time isn’t really a solid foundation for a friendship. Paying someone an egregious sum out of a self-interested desire to not be arrested doesn’t form any sort of bond. Brad could have just as easily found some other means to get to Paris. 

Embarking on a nine hour road trip with someone, surviving an attack by an anonymous rifle-toting assassin who later throws himself out a window onto the road directly below you, driving at high speeds and often in a direction opposing traffic through the streets of Paris while the police chase you, and then seeking refuge together whilst trying to uncover who is trying to kill you and why, seems to build some sort of bond, though.

Ray Person is a Recon Marine and Brad still remembers the man standing in Brad’s apartment with a big ass butcher’s knife, waiting for his opportunity, ready in case his assistance was needed. There has been more than one time when Brad could have been in trouble but hadn’t been because Ray kept calm and thought things through because somehow, for some unknown impossible reason, he trusted Brad.

Brad realizes that the feeling is mutual. 

If Ray thinks Walt can be helpful, Brad is willing to hear him out. Two Recon Marines should be able to take care of themselves long enough to get to cover. Brad’s pretty sure that whoever is after him is only peripherally interested in Ray. 

Ray ends his story with, “It turns out he’s an assassin and somebody’s still trying to kill him, and obviously they have my picture, so if we don’t wrap this shit up but soon we could both be in a world of hurt. And, naturally, I thought of you.”

“If you don’t mind the question,” Brad says. “What do you do?” 

Walt shrugs, and looks apologetic. “I operate a vineyard.”

Brad glares at Ray. Ray stares right back. “We’re better off here than we were at that sketchy hotel where they thought we were fucking.” Which Brad knows is true. Walt is snickering a little, and Brad also has to admit to feeling a certain relief after meeting yet another person who knows just as much of his story as he does, and isn’t running away in sheer terror. 

When it had been just him and Ray, Brad had dismissed Ray’s acceptance as merely due to the man clearly being insane. Walt, however, seems like a wholly reasonable person and he’s having even less trouble accepting the news that Ray did. Then again, Walt’s experience of the issue is currently only theoretical.

“An assassin,” Walt says. Brad nods. “So, what’s the plan?”

“The plan,” Ray says, once again with total confidence. “Is to dig-in here until whoever the hell employs this dude tracks us down and tries to kill us. At which time, Colbert here will do his ninja-thing and hopefully we can all gain some solid intel so we can figure out what to do next.”

Brad blinks. “That’s the plan?”

“What,” Ray says. “You _knew_ they were going to track us here. I mean, I _saw_ you piece that together when I told you I’d been here before. Why the hell else would you let us come here?”

The plan Ray suggested is actually precisely what Brad intended. That’s not what has surprised him. It’s Ray’s easy acceptance of it. Brad has to admit, “I thought you wanted to be dropped off some place familiar.”

“That’s so sweet,” Ray croons. Then snaps, “You’re fucking retarded, Colbert. Do I have to give my little moto ‘we’ll stick together’ speech again?”

“No.”

Walt’s eyes flicker back and forth between them, but finally he interjects, “You crashed my house at Christmas time to have some kind of old-fashioned stand-off with an organization that runs assassins that may or may not be somehow related to the American government?”

Ray blinks his wide brown eyes and says, “Merry Christmas!”

________________________

The address comes up on screen and Dowdy takes a moment to bask in a general feeling of relief. Three weeks and finally his luck is changing. “Get Paris on the line,” he says to Lovell. “Tell them to activate the asset. Give them the address.”

“Sir.” Lovell nods once, sharply, and then picks up the phone.

Everyone in the office has dark circles under their eyes, and Dowdy glances around with a feeling of pride. None of them are used to handling situations like this. They’ve gotten lazy, been allowed to become complacent because their assets are the most highly skilled, perfectly trained soldiers in the world. They don’t make mistakes.

Dowdy has an entire office full of some of the sharpest minds in the CIA, and he knows each of his outposts is kept to the same standard. By that token, he isn’t quite sure how Craig Schwetje made it over to their Paris outpost but it’s okay because Fick mostly counterbalances the man and, until recently, their Paris asset was one of the most elite assets out of a bunch of elite assets.

For all that they’ve apparently become complacent, every one of the people in his office has never faltered even once during this entire fiasco, and Dowdy is damned happy to have them working for him. He knows better than to announce that he thinks this can all be wrapped up by the end of the day. Jinxes and bad luck are something everyone sitting in that room believes in, and he counts himself among that number.

There is no getting around the feeling that the end is in sight, though. Dowdy keeps it to himself. Hands behind his back, he rocks forward and back on his feet. “Stay sharp, people.”

________________________

Brad can’t remember ever having seen a Western but Ray and Walt describe enough of them that he starts to build up a few expectations in his head. Walt doesn’t have an armory in his wine cellar but he’s got a rifle and a pistol, and is happy to let Brad choose between them.

Brad takes the rifle, and Walt pockets the other gun. “What about me?” Ray asks, but makes do with another kitchen knife. He stands by the main entrance and declares, “Nobody’s getting through this door.”

Nobody does, but that has nothing to do with Ray. At some ridiculous hour in the morning a bullet zips through the front window of Walt’s mansion and embeds itself into the wall. “You missed!” Ray shouts. “Try again, mother fucker!”

Brad looks at the bullet and then squints out the front window. The sniper didn’t miss; he hit the wall on purpose. Brad doesn’t know what that means but he knows he prefers it when the people coming after him fulfill his expectations. This guy seems to be playing some completely different game.

“Wow,” Walt says. “You’re going out there?” Brad nods. “Well, I guess I can’t school an assassin on this sort of thing.” He steps aside.

Brad pauses just inside the front door to ask, “Are you insured?” 

“Yeah,” Walt says. “Why?”

In answer, Brad blows up the tractor sitting in front of the house and uses the smoke as cover. He hopes Walt isn’t too pissed about that, but he figures if he can get them all out of this alive that counts for more than the loss of a tractor that looked like it hadn’t moved an inch in sixty years anyway.

Creeping through the brush, Brad keeps expecting a showdown like Ray has been describing all night. Some quick-draw, assassin versus assassin kind of action like he faced in the apartment, only now Brad’s feeling better prepared, more confident.

Instead, it ends with a brief struggle and one bullet fired into the guy’s foot because he keeps trying to scramble away. “Son of a bitch,” the man drawls, and finally holds still. “I was trying to be reasonable, you bastard.”

Brad stands over the guy, holding his gun steady and trained on his target. “Who are you?”

“Munich,” the man says, which makes absolutely no sense. He doesn’t even sound remotely German. “It’s me,” he says. “It’s Pappy.”

“What?”

The man, Munich, Pappy, whatever his name is, blinks up at him and says, “Fick said you might not know shit.”

Brad raises the gun. “I know plenty.”

“It’s not a criticism, Iceman,” Pappy says. “I’m not here to kill you.”

“I figured that out already.”

“Then why the hell did you shoot me in the foot?” Brad doesn’t really feel inclined to give an answer. The man should be happy Brad didn’t shoot him in the head just on principal. 

“What the hell is going on, Colbert? You’ve got everyone’s panties twisted up in bunches, and Treadstone’s calling up assets one by one. I had Paris Bravo issuing me counter orders, which is risky as hell if that ever comes to light. Everything’s all fucked.”

“Treadstone?” Brad echoes. “What’s Paris Bravo?”

Pappy blinks at him again, still holding his hands up on either side of his head. “Shit,” he says. “You know about fuck-all, don’t you? You are damned lucky you’ve got Fick calling in favors for your ass, that’s all I’m saying.”

Brad shifts his stance. It feels like they’re talking in two different languages. He has no idea what Pappy is saying. Jerking the gun up threateningly he demands, “Tell me about Treadstone.”

________________________

The phone call, when it comes, is patched immediately through to Langley. Lovell’s cool, _“Code in, please,”_ relayed over the wires, falling into the silence of Nate’s office like a stone dropping into a pond. Nate can hear Brad breathing. 

_“Who is this?”_ Brad asks, after Lovell again requests for him to code in. _“Who the hell are you?”_

Nate holds his breath. Brad doesn’t remember. All of this, right from Marseilles, has been because their asset has lost his memory. He catches himself starting to smile. It’s the most benign of the possibilities Nate has been keeping a tally of in his head. Things aren’t as far-gone as he’d been starting to think.

 _“The man you sent is dead,”_ Brad says, and the little glimmer of hope he’s been feeling swoops right out of Nate again. 

Jesus, he sent Pappy out there. 

He sent Pappy specifically because he knew the man could talk to Brad, could reach him. Nate knew Pappy; as much as it was possible to know an asset like that. Pappy was one of the few that Nate could turn to, that he knew he could trust. One of the few cases of a Treadstone asset still resembling, well, a person once they made it out the other side of the training.

 _“Hello, Bradley?”_ Dowdy says, finally coming onto the line. _“What’s going on there?”_

Brad stays silent. Nate wonders if the man is taking a moment to calculate his best course of action. He wonders how much Brad even knows. _“Come on, Bradley,”_ Dowdy coaxes. _“We can only make this right if you talk to us. Why don’t you come in? We’ll see what we can do.”_

If Brad comes in Treadstone will either put him through another round of training, or they’ll kill him. Brad might not know it, but he is Treadstone’s most prized asset, the first time the program yielded a success. 

_“If you don’t come in,”_ Dowdy says. _“We’re going to have to keep going until we’re satisfied.”_

 _“You mean until you kill me,”_ Brad says. Nate closes his eyes.

Dowdy sighs over the phone. _“Bradley, I can’t fix this if I don’t know what’s wrong. Try to work with me here.”_ There’s another stretch of silence. _“Why don’t you ask Ray what he thinks?”_

 _“Ray’s dead,”_ Brad answers, his voice flat. He sounds entirely unfamiliar to Nate. _“Walt’s dead, too. In case you were going to play that card next.”_

 _“It’s not a card, Bradley,”_ Dowdy says. _“Why did you kill them?”_

Brad breathes in and then exhales slow. He says, “ _5:30 pm Paris, today. Go to Pont Neuf. Go alone. Walk to the middle of the bridge and face east. I’ll redial this number.”_ There’s a click as Brad disconnects the line.

 _“Fick?”_ Dowdy asks. 

“Sir.”

_“Get me another asset on stand-by.”_

By the time Nate works out the words to affirm the order Dowdy has already hung up. Nate drops his head onto his desk. “Fucking Christ,” he mutters.

He’s still sitting like that when his phone buzzes a minute later. Nate gropes for it blindly, prepared to tell Mike that he has the worst timing in the world and instead of coffee, they should probably just find a bar and try to drink away the memory of the colossal idiocy that has been washing downstream since Brad first went missing.

Instead, he finds his phone is flashing a text at him. Nate takes a long breath and re-reads the message: ’Confirm: the valiant never taste of death but once.’

Every Treadstone asset has a code-phrase. Nate knows this one belongs to Pappy. It means the man is just fine; that he completed his objective and, for all that Brad had said to Dowdy, he’s alive and on his way back.Staring at the message, Nate feels a wave of relief rush through him that bubbles up inside until it spills out of his lips as a laugh. Brad Colbert might have absolutely no memory, but he’s still the same. Nate still knows him.

That’s something.


	5. Chapter 5

By 5:30 Brad has long-since found himself a suitable rooftop with swooping ornate stonework behind which he can crouch as he peers down at Pont Neuf through a pair of binoculars he stole from Walt. From this vantage point he is confident that he can see everything without running the risk of being spotted himself.

Ray and Walt had proven quite difficult to part ways with. Mostly, this was because Ray kept insisting they stick together: “You say you’ll meet back up with us, but you have no intention of doing that!” 

Brad really has no idea where Ray’s devotion is coming from but he has to admit that when they had dropped him off on their way out of town, he had been sorry to see both of them go. They are the only two people he knows, and they are also the only two people he feels he can trust.

“I hope you know that if by the end of this month you haven’t shown up, and we haven’t read about your death on the front page of the paper, he’s going to start hunting you down,” Walt had said. He’d been filling a backpack with everything Brad might need, which included the binoculars that Brad is currently looking through.

Promptly at the set time, Brad watches a man in a navy blue coat and grey scarf step out of a white van. The bridge has been steadily filling with seemingly innocent bystanders who do not do as good a job of hiding the fact they’re talking into hidden microphones as they think. What’s clear is that whoever Treadstone is, they can’t run a clandestine snatch-and-grab for shit. 

Apparently, they also can’t follow simple instructions.

He vacates his observation post moving swiftly through the building. Brad grabs Pappy’s phone from his pocket as he pushes open the side door and turns the collar of his coat up, obscuring his face. These people know what he looks like after all, and it wouldn’t do to get caught when he has gotten this close. When the phone rings he watches as the man in the navy blue coat and grey scarf reaches into his pocket and retrieves a cellphone. _“Hello, Bradley?”_

Brad really wishes the man would stop calling him ‘Bradley’. It makes him wants to say, ‘Yes _Mom_?’ which he’s pretty sure would be entirely inappropriate. He walks up behind the white van and ducks down, slipping a tracking device he assembled from a hodge-podge of electronic equipment from Walt’s house beneath the rear bumper.

“I told you to come alone. Apparently, you have difficulty understanding the simplest of instructions, but hopefully you will not have trouble understanding this: I’m gone.” 

He disconnects the call but doesn’t pocket the phone. Still continuing at a steady pace as he walks through the streets, Brad keeps an eye on the phone’s screen. Precisely two minutes after he ends the call the little red tracking dot starts moving through the streets of Paris displayed on the small square screen. 

Brad turns down a side road and starts following.

________________________

When the call comes Nate isn’t actually doing anything. It’s not like there’s any strings he can pull now that Brad has come forward and is playing the game. Mostly he’s sitting in his office running through a list of variables and wondering what an elite, highly trained asset with amnesia plans on doing to the Director of Operations for Treadstone. That is, if the men Dowdy cobbled together to run a snatch-and-grab on Brad don’t actually manage to get their hands on their target. Which, in truth, Nate finds extremely unlikely.

“Sir?” he says, picking up the phone.

_“How long will it take to strike the office?”_

Nate blinks, glancing at his watch. “Two or three hours.”

_“Start the process now. Wipe the room down, and get everything prepared for moving. We should have done this days ago.”_

Pressing his lips together, Nate considers not asking the only question on his mind, but he has to know. “What about Colbert?”

_“I’ve activated the asset. I’m on my way. ETA five mikes.”_

“Understood.” Nate hangs up, and then drops his head into his hands. “Fuck.” 

Really, how many damned assets are they going to keep calling-in to deal with this? If Dowdy had stuck with the initial plan and sent Nate out, he’s certain the whole fiasco would have never spiraled out of control the way it has. They certainly wouldn’t have lost Barcelona. Not that the man was a great paragon of virtue, or even the slightest bit friendly, but he was a person and an asset, and it’s Nate’s job to make sure their assets don’t die needlessly.

In some corners of the CIA Treadstone’s Bravo-agents might be considered handlers, but Nate’s pretty sure those cozy, safe corners of the CIA have no idea what Treadstone assets are capable of. There’s no ‘handling’ them. Nate knows every one of them could function perfectly well entirely independent of the agency. Mostly, they operate like satellites scattered around the globe, carrying-on with normal life until someone like Nate or Craig sends them a message.

The trouble comes from the training. After Brad, Treadstone made a few modifications but it’s still the most grueling, disturbing process. Far beyond anything Nate encountered in the Corps, surpassing even SERE in its intensity. It’s beyond anything he thinks exists anywhere. When he’d read about the process he’d been infuriated and disgusted, and he’d wanted to quit. He hadn’t.

He reminds himself that he’s damned good at his job. That being a Bravo-agent means he is in a unique situation to work the system. It’s everything he was as a lieutenant but he’s not alone out here, stuck between the rain of shit coming down from on high, acting as the only umbrella providing protection for twenty-two men; a single link in a chain of command more interested in executing orders and earning a pat on the head than making effective decisions. 

The CIA is all about subtlety and manipulation, and it rewards those who know how to work the system. Nate knows that system backwards and forwards. He walks the fine line between being good at his job, but not so good someone might feel threatened or take it into their head to try and promote him. That’s not what this is about. He's been playing a long game from the moment he was transferred and, from the looks of things, that game just got a lot longer.

He starts striking the office. Shredding documents that he knows are duplicated, wiping the computer hard drives. Prioritizing each task based on what would be the most incrementing or dangerous should it fall into the wrong hands. It’s a lot of work that needs to be done in a hurry. 

Periodically, he double-checks the office security: everything locked, all the alarms intact. He goes back to sifting through old paperwork.

“How’s our timetable?” Dowdy asks as he unlocks the front door and comes inside.

“We’re on track.” Nate checks the security again. Nothing yet.

Dowdy pulls off his suit jacket and starts helping. “There’s extra security out front. We’ll move quickly, I don’t think that we'll have any problems.”

Joe Dowdy is an office worker. Or at least, has been an office worker for long enough that he’s forgotten what it’s like out in the field. He’s never dealt directly with an asset. Dowdy’s the one who calls Nate and says, “Get it done.” Nate’s the one who takes it from there. For all that the man might think he understands the program he’s running, he has no idea.

Dowdy looks at Nate and sees his cover, mistakes that cover for reality. A student studying abroad, a kid who’s undoubtedly worrying that there’s an asset out there circling closer and closer to their position. That’s not Nate.

“I’ll work faster, sir,” he says, keeps his head down.

Outside, a car alarm goes off. Nate glances toward the window. On the opposite side of the room, Dowdy turns from the filing cabinet and frowns. “Does that happen often?” he asks, but before he finishes his question one car alarm becomes five, becomes every car on the street.

Nate glances at the computer. “The system is going haywire.” 

“Where’s your field box?” 

Nate jerks his head toward Craig’s office. “Bottom drawer, right hand side of the desk.” 

When Joe’s back is turned Nate slips his own gun from the drop-compartment on the underside of his desk. He tucks it in the waistband of his pants, against the small of his back.

Dowdy cocks the gun he retrieves from the field box and glances over, then he starts walking a slow perimeter around the office. After checking that the agents outside the door are on alert he completes a circuit of the front office before crossing back through to Craig’s, out of sight. 

All the lights go out. The office becomes abruptly and utterly dark. Nate feels a cool draft, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He turns and there’s Brad, perched in the window like he’s been there the whole time. 

Seeing him after so long makes Nate want to smile; makes him want to breach the distance between them and wipe away the memory of the past three weeks. 

He doesn’t move. They stare at each other.

Pointedly, Nate flicks his eyes in the direction of the other room. Brad shifts forward, steps down off the window ledge and glances where Nate has indicated. Then he turns back to Nate.

He looks different, paler and maybe a little thinner. There’s a faint shadow along his jaw, a hint of a beard circling his mouth. Nate’s seen Brad with facial hair before but usually he prefers to be clean-shaven. Nate finds himself wondering if the facial hair is the result of necessity, just Brad being unable to shave given everything that’s been going on, or if it’s something he likes, now.

Brad’s looking at him and there’s no recognition in his eyes. He’s frowning, like he’s trying to work something out but Nate keeps himself perfectly still, his hands by his sides, his expression inscrutable. There was a time when Brad could have read him anyway.

Nate can tell just by looking though, that time has passed.

________________________

This is why Joe Dowdy works in an office three floors underground in Langley: he hates assets.

Theoretically, he has nothing but sympathy for these men. He’s read the briefs outlining the extra training each asset goes through. It’s not pretty. 

Practically, he can understand how having a small army of these guys living around the globe can come in useful. Dowdy is under no illusions; he’s in a particularly immoral line of work, however necessary he deems his job to be. The CIA is all about shades of grey.

Realistically, assets creep Dowdy the fuck out.

One minute, he is standing in the Paris outpost going about his business cleaning up this mess and the next there are car alarms inexplicably blazing, and then there’s no light anywhere at all. He’s walking a perimeter and crosses out of Fick’s office into the adjoining room for a moment. There’s no sound, there’s no indication at all of movement and he’s listening _specifically_ for that.

When he crosses back to the main office the darkness reaches out and gets him into a pretty damned effective choke-hold. Fick’s standing there with slightly wide eyes, and what the hell can the kid do against an asset? Nothing. Especially when Dowdy’s got the only damned gun.

“Drop the gun,” Colbert says. His voice sounds smooth and sophisticated. Like he isn’t holding someone in a lock that could effectively break his captive’s arm in three places.

Out of all of them, Colbert creeps Dowdy out the most. Maybe it’s because he went through the training before it was sanitized. Maybe it’s because he went through the training before it was sanitized and came out the other side more human than some of their other assets. This little psychotic episode has probably been brewing for a hell of a long time. Fucking assets.

“Drop it,” Colbert repeats. 

Dowdy lets the gun fall to the floor and watches as Colbert kicks it away. He’s not an idiot. With the gun or without it there’s not much he can do against the Paris asset. “This is bigger than me, or you,” Dowdy says, hoping that reasoning might work. “What exactly do you think you can accomplish here?”

There’s a pause, and he almost holds his breath waiting for the answer. Then Colbert says, “Tell me about Treadstone.”

“It’s a program. Run out of the CIA. Black ops.”

Brad slams him against the wall and hisses, “Assassins.”

Dowdy snorts. “I don’t send you to kill people, Colbert. I send you because you’re invisible. I send you because you don’t _exist_.”

“So what was Wombosi?”

“You were _supposed_ to execute the mission so the only possible explanation was a member of his own entourage turned on him.” He wraps a hand around the edge of the door with his free hand because his cheek is pressing uncomfortably into the wall. “I don’t know what went wrong. _You_ tell _me_.”

Colbert pauses. “I don’t know.”

“Bull shit you don’t know!” Dowdy snaps. “I’ve spent three goddamned weeks trying to cleanup the mess you’ve made. ‘I don’t know’ is not going to cut it here. That is _unacceptable soldier_!”

Colbert jerks away, and then actually _steps_ away. Dowdy hesitates, but after a second he turns around. 

Colbert has his hands up to his head and he’s wincing like he’s got a migraine. Dowdy wonders if he should take the opportunity and run for the gun but then Colbert whispers, “Kids.” After a minute he says it again, a little stronger. “There were kids on the boat.”

What the _fuck_?

Dowdy has been through a really shitty three weeks, that’s his only explanation. Instead of doing something smart like reaching for the gun, he perches his clenched fists on his hips and says, “ _You’re_ the one who picked the yacht as the damned strike point! You picked the _boat_ , you picked the _day_. You tracked the crew, the food, and the fuel! You hid on that damned boat for _five fucking days_. You were _in_ , it should have been _over_! You’re telling me this bullshit was because of a couple of _kids_? You’re an _assassin!_ ”

Colbert drops his hands from his head and Dowdy finds himself slammed back against the wall. Hard. He has no idea how he’s going to explain these bruises to his wife. If he lives that long.

“I don’t work for you anymore,” Colbert snarls. “I’m not an assassin. I’m done. Brad Colbert died three weeks ago. He drowned five miles off the coast of Marseilles. I’m leaving.” He knocks Dowdy back into the wall again. “If I even feel someone behind me, there is no measure for how fast and how hard I will bring this fight to your very doorstep.”

Dowdy’s head is throbbing, his back hurts like hell and he’s tired. “You can’t walk away from this.”

The street lamp outside is at the perfect angle to illuminate Colbert’s impossibly pale blue eyes. “Yes I can.” Then he proceeds to demonstrate just how perfectly capable he is of walking away by opening the front office door and stepping out into the hallway. Dowdy waits, expecting the sound of gunfire or at least a fight. He has seven highly skilled agents waiting in that hallway, each of which were thoroughly briefed and prepared to deal with almost any contingency.

Everything is quiet.

When he opens the door all seven agents are sprawled on the floor or draped across the stairs. All of them unconscious, or maybe dead. There is no sign of Colbert. Dowdy closes the door. “Jesus Christ.”

Fick looks at him. “What do we do now, sir?”

“I don’t even know,” he says. If it were anyone but Fick he probably would have said nothing at all. “I highly doubt Mattis will take Colbert’s resignation lightly. Assets don’t walk away from the program.”

Fick tips his head to the side, says, “Have we ever had an asset that wanted to, before?”

No, they haven’t. Dowdy sighs. “Colbert is a thirty million dollar weapon. When he worked, he was damned good. The most he can hope for is that Mattis gets distracted by another project, but it’s only a matter of time.”

The Bravo agent seems to mull that over. “What about the other asset?”

Dowdy shrugs, then pulls his phone from his pocket. “I’ll call him off. Colbert’s lost his memory, I think if we leave him be he’ll let us alone. That’s the best we can hope for at this point.” Fick shifts away as Dowdy sends out the message.

Mattis is going to have a thing or two to say. Dowdy wonders what story he should give. Maybe the man will believe it if Dowdy fakes a car-fire. If the fire burns hot enough, and if the body they get is tall enough, they can easily claim it to be Colbert and that would be it. Everybody happy. Colbert gets to walk away like he wanted, Mattis gets everything tidied and swept back under the carpet, and Dowdy can have his goddamned mornings back. At least until the next crisis comes along which, he thinks, can’t possibly be as much of a colossal rat-fuck as this one has been.

“Finish striking this place,” he tells Fick. “I’m heading back to Langley.” 

Fick nods and Dowdy drops the gun from the field kit onto the man’s desk. “What a goddamned mess,” he mutters as he turns to the door.

He walks past the bodies of the agents as he goes down the stairs. Probably he call someone but he’s had about enough of all of it. Fick will take care of it, Dowdy’s certain. 

Pushing open the door, he steps out into the cool night and realizes that somewhere in between that whole mess in the office the car alarms were turned off. His ears still feel like they’re ringing. He’s pretty sure that by the time he reaches the plane he’ll have a full-blown migraine. Fucking assets.

Pulling his keys out, Dowdy applauds himself for having the foresight to leave his rental at the outpost and take the van over to the bridge. He really hates driving large, unwieldy vehicles. Especially when he’s in Europe where the roads are all about half the size of the streets in America.

Ahead, a figure steps out of the darkness. Dowdy sighs, of course it couldn’t just be over so easily. “Colbert?” 

It’s not Colbert. This shadow is shorter, and the coat he is wearing is longer. Dowdy frowns and then recognizes the asset he placed on standby to take care of Colbert. “Didn’t you get my text? I scrubbed the mission.” He sees the glint of the silencer in the darkness. Dowdy has a moment to recognize it for what it is and opens his mouth, though he doesn’t know what he’s about to say.

He doesn’t hear the shot. He doesn’t see the bullet.

There’s a sharp burst of pain in his chest that makes his breath hitch.

________________________

There’s sunshine and heat and vibrant blue water. 

After the grey drabness of Paris in winter the Amalfi Coast is almost overwhelmingly saturated in color. Brad keeps his shades on and breathes deep. The wind is blowing the thin white cotton button-down he’s wearing. He has a tan already because he rented a convertible for the drive. As far as he can remember he’s never driven a convertible before, although he can’t remember ever passing a driving test, either. He’s all about new experiences but some of them he’s pretty certain he doesn’t need to duplicate. Obviously he can drive because he handled himself all right in a high-speed chase. Driving in Italy isn’t much different, actually.

Brad walks down to the pier. He bought himself a nice leather bag into which he stuffed some clothes and a few other things he had liberated from the duffel he’d hidden at the Paris train station. 

He moved the duffel of course, stashed it somewhere else where it will be safe. Somehow, he can’t quite believe that making a clean break with whoever he was will be as simple as telling Treadstone he’s no longer interested. If and when the time comes he’s prepared, but for now he’s just a shadow. Nameless, history-less, brand new.

Only, not quite. There’s still that blue square of plastic and that single track on that CD. There’s a copy of _The Odyssey_ in his bag, with handwriting in the margins that Brad knows isn’t his. There’s the smell of cloves and citrus, and a soft voice that welcomes him always into his dreams. There’s the distinct feeling that something is missing.

There is also the bright yellow shop right on the edge of the pier, with a hand painted sign that boasts boat and scooter rentals. “Sweet Baby Jesus,” Ray says, pushing his ginormous sunglasses up to perch in his hair as he leans over the railing, grinning. “Hey Walt!” he cries. “Check who finally showed up!”

Walt pokes his head out the front door of the shop and grins. “Brad! We were wondering when you’d track us down.”

“Next time I advise you to go to ground,” Brad says. “Perhaps it would be wise to refrain from posting fucking _personal ads_ in the newspaper advertising your location.”

Ray shrugs. “How else were you going to find us?” Brad shares a particularly long-suffering look with Walt that is disrupted as Ray starts shoving him into the shop. “Anyway, what were you doing reading the personal ads, _Bradley_?” 

He’s probably certifiably insane for having the opportunity at freedom and then turning around and willingly going in search of Ray Person. Brad doesn’t care because he’s feeling only the giddy-rush of possibility, and Ray’s incessant chatter is distracting that part of him that feels like it’s empty, like he’s misplaced something important somewhere.

“Check this out, Brad,” Ray’s saying. “Walt’s so ridiculously loaded, we started this whole shop!” Besides the rentals, there’s also a small bar. “You can totally be our bartender,” Ray adds. “We’ve already got a room set up for you. This is gonna be awesome!”

There’s a journal in Brad’s bag, some of the pages already filled. Whatever he remembers, every notation, every filled page becoming a piece in a puzzle he’s working out. Sooner or later he will fill in enough of that puzzle to find out who it is whispering to him each night, describing the world like it’s a beautiful place worth seeing. Kissing Brad like he’s just as beautiful as the world, like he’s just as worthwhile. 

It’s the only part of who he was that Brad still wants to know. 

No matter how long it takes, he intends to find out.

________________________

“Damn,” Mike says, when Nate opens the door to his flat. “Tell me the first thing you plan to do when you reach Madrid is buy some furniture.”

Nate glances around. “I didn’t stay here much.”

“Long hours at the office is no excuse,” Mike says absently as he wanders in.

Nate tips his head down, his fingers balanced on the edge of the bag he’s been packing. It wasn’t the long hours. By the look Mike sends him, his friend knows what he's thinking. “You should take a vacation,” Mike says, his voice artificially upbeat. “Come round to Rome. Claire would love for you to visit.”

Nate raises his eyebrows. “This isn’t exactly a good time for a vacation, Mike.”

“With you, it’s _never_ a good time for a vacation. If not now then _when_ , that’s what _I’m_ getting at.” He starts sorting through some of the things on Nate’s bookshelf, takes a glance at one of the half-packed boxes and figures out Nate’s packing scheme. 

“Treadstone has been decommissioned,” Mike continues as he settles a stack of books into a box. “Mattis shut the program down. Things are changing now. If you establish yourself as a busy worker bee too soon, they’ll have you buried under so much work you’ll forget what the sun looks like.”

Nate shoves a sweater into his bag, hesitates. He drags the sweater out and folds it neatly, then returns it to his luggage. “Mattis tied up all the loose ends, except the most important one,” he says, darkly. “Treadstone is over. Dowdy is _dead_. Do you _really_ think this is finished?” 

Raising his eyebrows, Nate fixes his friend with sharp look. “The CIA doesn’t throw away projects like Treadstone. Not really. Those assets aren’t gone. You think things are going to get _better_? I never once thought you were naïve, Mike.”

Mike watches him quietly for a moment. “You know, for all that you talk about wanting to make things right, I think you like getting your hands dirty.”

“I work for the CIA,” Nate answers blandly. It’s answer enough. Nobody in his department can boast clean hands. Mike included. They’re both Bravo-agents, even if they have different ways of going about their work. Maybe Nate’s a little more committed. Then again, he has a damned good reason for that.

“I wish you’d tell me what your endgame is,” Mike sighs. “I can help, but you’re determined to go it all on your own.”

Carefully, Nate turns back to emptying his drawers. “My endgame is the same as it’s always been.” 

“Now who’s fooling who here?”

“Don’t push this,” Nate says as he carefully folds another sweater. He finishes emptying out his dresser, zips the suitcase before he moves on to his closet. There’s not much in there. He refuses to think where most of those clothes are. Instead, he pulls out his garment bag and lays it out on his bed.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Mike asks, breaking the silence. “To him, I mean. He was right there.”

Nate glances at his friend. “And so was Dowdy.” 

“He had Pappy’s cellphone. Which, don’t even get me started on Pappy, Nate. I keep telling you that you’re damned crazy, I can’t think of better proof.”

“It worked,” Nate points out. He sets one of his suits into his bag and then turns around, half-sits on his packed luggage. “He doesn’t remember me.”

Mike hesitates, looks a bit like he’s lost for words. “Nate…”

“No,” Nate says, waving a hand. “I’m not moping. This isn’t heartbreak you’re witnessing. I’m not running away from Paris because I can’t live here on my own.” He sighs, because as much as he trusts Mike he doesn’t want to jeopardize his friend by sharing more information than he should.

“You know,” he says instead. “You _know_ this isn’t over.”

Mike holds his gaze, and Nate thinks he might actually get it. “You’re five steps ahead of every one of us, aren’t you?”

Nate smirks. “I used to be one step behind him, every goddamned time.”

Clapping a hand on Nate's shoulder, Mike flexes his fingers in an encouraging squeeze and smiles. “He’ll catch up, Nate. I know he will.”

“I know.” Nate lets his smile stretch across his face. It isn’t a question, it’s a certainty. He feels it down to the very core of himself. He doesn’t know how long it will take; maybe it will only be a few days or weeks. Maybe it will be years. It’s inevitable, though, all of them just biding their time.

Just catching their breath.

Because some day Brad will catch up and when he does, Nate will be waiting.


End file.
